Well, George Steinbrenner is dead. May the Devil sodomize him slowly, yet powerfully. Now, The Drizzle is a Red Sox fan, but I’m not really a big Yankee-Hater. Like everyone, I look forward to seeing them come up on the schedule, but there isn’t really the pure hatred that I see in the hearts of others. As I listen to WEEI, Dale Arnold is saying that he is saddened by the loss of Steinbrenner, and I’m sure most of Red Sox Nation will echo those regards. But I know that is a lot of bullshit. You were all secretly loving the fact that Georgie was sitting down in Florida, laying down on a vibrating lady bug that his sons found in The Weekly Special. That’s why you have your boy, The Drizzle. I will say all of the things you are too much of a pussy to say yourself. You’re welcome, children.
As I sit down in my best Doogie Howser, M.D. posture, ready to type my wit and witticisms in my best Kevin Arnold internal monologue, I am reminded of a confusing time in my life. It was in elementary school that I noticed I was different than the other boys. I would sit there in my 32 huskies watching my classmates change into Larry Bird shorts and and polo shirts. There was something about this routine that was foreign to me. My DNA felt a strange connection to this feeling, as if somewhere in the long-long-ago one of my distant ancestors might have shared this feeling. However in that moment, while the stars aligned signaling my generation’s place in the world, I felt numb. After a few weeks I finally worked up the nerve to ask my father the one question that could only come out with the strength and determination of a thousand Spartan soldiers.
“Father.” I said. “Why don’t I play soccer?”
“Drizzle.” He responded. “Our family left Europe so we would never have to see that fuckin’ sport again. Now shut up and get me a beer. The Red Sox are about to become the 1986 World Series Champions.”
Melting glaciers. Rising sea levels. Extinction of species. Destruction of ecosystems. Right-wing bloviating. All of these things are unfortunate after-effects of climate change.
I’d like to discuss this week’s fanfare over the brief return of Nomar Garciaparra to Fenway.
Simple post. Ladainian Tomlinson and Brian Westbrook are now available. I do not claim to be a football expert, but please pick up one of these f*&%$in’ douchebags. I know they are probably past their prime, and riddled with injuries, but another year with Maroney as the featured back will surely end in Moss receiving a pass with Brady’s detached arm landing in 81’s arms…ball in hand of course…