Cliffhangers

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(The Sox hold on the Division lead gets rather precarious indeed)

Memorandum

To: Boston Red Sox
From: Someone who gives a shit

Re: Lackluster play

Okay, you underacheiving bozos, this is the last time. This is the final memo you’re getting this year.

I realize that my threats to up and become a Kansas City Royals fan are merely that, empty threats. Geography and genetics prevent me from actually making good on said threat but DON’T THINK I haven’t been tempted. Days like yesterday, when you’ve blown a seemingly winnable game against the Oakland A’s with Curt “Geez, that Faustian bargain really is coming back to bite me in the ass” Schilling on the mound and we’re counting on the godforsaken Devil Rays to keep the Yankees at bay (they can’t), it’s looking downright soothing over there in Royals country.

I mean, just think, the team, three times out of four, is going to lose. You know this. You expect this. You go into it thinking, well, at least I’ll get to see some baseball. Not baseball played at a particularly high level, mind you, but baseball nonetheless. So when they win, which happens when the wind is blowing the right way or the moon is in the seventh house or some such fateful alignment of planets, it’s an added bonus. Imagine that, watching the games every day and being pleasantly surprised when the Royals, against all odds, pull one out. Man, what a life.

But no. No, instead I’m stuck with you buch of drag-asses with your slogans and your hair bleach and your 24-hour “Look at us!” network. Most of the time I don’t complain, but right now, with you playing how you’re playing (read: as if you’ve already been mathematically eliminated), it merely serves to rub my nose it in. And so I say: WAKE THE HELL UP!

I’m addressing all of you individually because you’ve all got something to answer for. Except for you, David. You just stand right here next to me with your arms folded in a threatening manner, tapping your foot. Maybe they’ll get the message.

Johnny: I’ve never seen you throw a baseball with any modicum of ability so why the hell are we just figuring out that this could be a problem now? Seriously, dude, I am an actual girl and from the moment my dad taught me to throw across my body, I’ve had a better arm that you’ve ever displayed. I know you’re hurt and you play beat up and blah, blah, blah, I’m a hard worker-cakes, but perhaps if you STOPPED RUNNING INTO SHIT this would be less of a problem. You’ve got to suck it up now. Gabe’s not going to be able to take any of the strain off your noodle-arm and despite the headaches you give us in the field, we need your bat. And speaking of headaches, look into a ponytail. No wonder you keep running into shit.

Edgar: Here, try this: *bangs head against wall* Lather, rinse, repeat.

Manuelito: I’m not sure who you think you’re fooling with your disappearing outfielder act but we ARE going to notice if there’s a $20 million hole in left field who becomes a black hole of suck at the plate. Dude, you are Manny Freakin’ Ramirez. You do know this, right? You can’t just…go away. This is not Colorado. We are paying attention. For the love of Teletubbies and gummy bears, start hitting the goddamn ball. Sheeet.

Trot: You know, you’re pretty much okay. I don’t have too many issues with you. Be nice if you’d finally learn how to hit a lefty from time to time but you’re Trot Nixon, you’re undoubtedly the guy who has many guns necessitating an entire rack. Therefore, who the hell am I to tell you what to do? Right. However, I’m going to request nicely that you stop giving grooming tips to Billy because he does just fine on his own and none of us needed to see the Buelly Fu Manchu. Stop making him watch wrestling, Trot. Please, for all of us.

Tek: You, young man, are walking a very, very thin line. I’m usually your biggest supporter, as it were, but even I can’t take it when you SWING AT THE GODDAMN HIGH FASTBALL THAT YOU HAVE NEVER, EVER BEEN ABLE TO HIT ON YOUR THREE PLUS DECADES ON THIS PLANET AND YOU CONTINUALLY MAKE ROOKIE PITCHERS LOOK LIKE FUCKING CY YOUNG BECAUSE THEY THROW THAT SHIT TO YOU AND YOU CAN’T NOT SWING AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY STOP SWINGING AT THE UNHITTABLE HIGH FASTBALL THE END! Jesus. You can probably hear me yelling from my apartment which is less than a mile from Fenway. And I am not kidding, sir. One more time and I’m coming down there myself, waiting outside the players’ entrance and lobbing high fastballs at your head until you learn not to fight them off. Christ. Learn some discipline, dammit.

Millar: Remember how last year you opened your stance or something and you were magically able to hit home runs and beat the hell out of the Coke bottles? Remember how fun that was? Yeah, me too. But the memories are fading, jackass, and if you wanted to refresh them a little, go right ahead. Oh, and about your defense. I realize that we’re a little thin in the outfield with Gabe out but could you at least try to look like a semi-serviceable outfielder and not a three-legged elephant on rollerskates? This means calling for the ball. This means catching the damn ball when you call for it. This means not diving just for the bloody hell of it and having the ball land fifteen feet behind you. Goddamit, Kevin. Shag some flies, for cryin’ out loud.

Buelly: Listen, you have two choices. Either fill in the mustache and make it a full-fledged goatee or shave the whole damn thing off. That’s it. There’s no middle ground. I have very little problems with your hitting right now since you and Papi are pretty much the only ones pulling your weight.

*waits for obligatory Papi/Buelly hug*

But the Fu Manchu has got to go. I don’t care what Trot says. That dude attends Monster Truck rallies for fun. We are not listening to him for grooming habits. In fact, we’re not listening to anyone on the team, especially not Millar. If he comes towards you with a bottle of hair dye and some rubber gloves, just run the fuck away. I’m serious.

Tony: God bless you, dude. I’ll bet you didn’t know you were getting thrown into the middle of this funhouse. And you’ve done well for yourself. Mostly, I want to tell you that things just get harder from here on out. This is Boston and everyone from the clubhouse boy to the hot dog vendor to the Jesus freak outside the park is batshit insane. It’s gonna get you too. I hope you’re ready for it. Prepare the bomb shelter now.

Keith: Sit down and be quiet. Until you can prove to me that you can throw a pitch that isn’t bound for the Mass Pike, I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. Listen, thanks for last year and all that. Really, well done. We’re not going to forget that. But I’m far too frustrated with the bullpen right now to give you another free pass. Best we don’t speak.

Mike: Frankly, I’m a little scared of you. But right now, I’m even more scared of your alarming tendency to give up home runs. How about we stop that right now and no one will get accidentally run over by a rusty pickup truck? Good plan?

To the rest of the bullpen Gashouse Gang: Suck it up, boys. The time to play is now. Stop dicking around with the fans in the bleachers and start pitching like your pants are on fire. I mean it. I am not afraid to come down there and pelt you all with rotten tomatoes. And if you throw them back to me, I’ll launch them 502 feet. What I’m saying is you can’t pitch, boys. Prove me wrong.

To the starting rotation: *slaps every member of starting five upside the head*
Consistency, gentleman. Consistency. And I mean of the “seven innings, three runs or less” kind not the “three innings, seven runs and hey, is Manny playing Power Rangers without me?” kind. Until further notice, you’re all on the hook.

Now listen, I know what you all (or most of you) did last year. And I am continually grateful for that. Really. I mean it. But this is THIS YEAR. Last year doesn’t matter. Let’s ask Bill Belichick who knows a little something about defending titles:

Belichick: Last year doesn’t matter.

See? The man knows his shit. As far as I’m concered, every member of The 25 should have a delicious marshmallow statue built in his honor. But this year doesn’t care about last year. As far as this year is concerned, last year never happened. The time for giving out free passes based on last year’s performance ended a while ago. We are hanging onto the division lead by a very thin thread, gentleman so I suggest you get your heads out of your asses and play like you fucking mean it. The time is now.

Sincerely,
~Someone who gives a shit <!– D(["mb"," \r\n \r\nJohnny: I\'ve never seen you throw a baseball with any modicum of\r\nability so why the hell are we just figuring out that this could be a\r\nproblem now? Seriously, dude, I am an actual girl and from the moment\r\nmy dad taught me to throw across my body, I\’ve had a better arm that\r\nyou\’ve ever displayed. I know you\’re hurt and you play beat up and\r\nblah, blah, blah, I\’m a hard worker-cakes, but perhaps if you STOPPED RUNNING INTO SHIT this\r\nwould be less of a problem. You\’ve got to suck it up now. Gabe\’s not\r\ngoing to be able to take any of the strain off your noodle-arm and\r\ndespite the headaches you give us in the field, we need your bat. And\r\nspeaking of headaches, look into a ponytail. No wonder you keep running\r\ninto shit.
\r\n
\r\nEdgar: Here, try this: *bangs head against wall* Lather, rinse, repeat.
\r\n
\r\nManuelito: I\’m not sure who you think you\’re fooling with your\r\ndisappearing outfielder act but we ARE going to notice if there\’s a $20\r\nmillion hole in left field who becomes a black hole of suck at the\r\nplate. Dude, you are Manny Freakin\’ Ramirez. You do know this, right?\r\nYou can\’t just…go away. This is not Colorado. We are paying\r\nattention. For the love of Teletubbies and gummy bears, start hitting\r\nthe goddamn ball. Sheeet.
\r\n
\r\nTrot: You know, you\’re pretty much okay. I don\’t have too many issues\r\nwith you. Be nice if you\’d finally learn how to hit a lefty from time\r\nto time but you\’re Trot Nixon, you\’re undoubtedly the guy who has many\r\nguns necessitating an entire rack. Therefore, who the hell am I to tell\r\nyou what to do? Right. However, I\’m going to request nicely that you\r\nstop giving grooming tips to Billy because he does just fine on his own\r\nand none of us needed to see the Buelly Fu Manchu. Stop making him\r\nwatch wrestling, Trot. Please, for all of us.
\r\n
\r\nTek: You, young man, are walking a very, very thin line. I\’m usually\r\nyour biggest supporter, as it were, but even I can\’t take it when you\r\nSWING AT THE GODDAMN HIGH FASTBALL THAT YOU HAVE NEVER, EVER BEEN ABLE\r\nTO HIT ON YOUR THREE PLUS DECADES ON THIS PLANET AND YOU CONTINUALLY\r\nMAKE ROOKIE PITCHERS LOOK LIKE FUCKING CY YOUNG BECAUSE THEY THROW THAT\r\nSHIT TO YOU AND YOU CAN\’T “,1] ); //–> <!– D(["mb","NOT SWING\r\nAND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY STOP SWINGING AT THE\r\nUNHITTABLE HIGH FASTBALL THE END! Jesus. You can probably hear me\r\nyelling from my apartment which is less than a mile from Fenway. And I\r\nam not kidding, sir. One more time and I\’m coming down there myself,\r\nwaiting outside the players\’ entrance and lobbing high fastballs at\r\nyour head until you learn not to fight them off. Christ. Learn some discipline, dammit.
\r\n
Millar: Remember how last year you opened your stance or something\r\nand you were magically able to hit home runs and beat the hell out of\r\nthe Coke bottles? Remember how fun that was? Yeah, me too. But the\r\nmemories are fading, jackass, and if you wanted to refresh them a\r\nlittle, go right ahead. Oh, and about your defense. I realize that\r\nwe\’re a little thin in the outfield with Gabe out but could you at\r\nleast try to look like a semi-serviceable outfielder and not a\r\nthree-legged elephant on rollerskates? This means calling for the ball.\r\nThis means catching the damn ball when you call for it. This means not\r\ndiving just for the bloody hell of it and having the ball land fifteen\r\nfeet behind you. Goddamit, Kevin. Shag some flies, for cryin\’ out loud.\r\n
\r\n
\r\nBuelly: Listen, you have two choices. Either fill in the mustache and\r\nmake it a full-fledged goatee or shave the whole damn thing off. That\’s\r\nit. There\’s no middle ground. I have very little problems with your\r\nhitting right now since you and Papi are pretty much the only ones\r\npulling your weight.
\r\n
\r\n*waits for obligatory Papi/Buelly hug*
\r\n
\r\nBut the Fu Manchu has got to go. I don\’t care what Trot says. That dude\r\nattends Monster Truck rallies for fun. We are not listening to him for\r\ngrooming habits. In fact, we\’re not listening to anyone on the team,\r\nespecially not Millar. If he comes towards you with a bottle of hair\r\ndye and some rubber gloves, just run the fuck away. I\’m serious.
\r\n
\r\nTony: God bless you, dude. I\’ll bet you didn\’t know you were getting\r\nthrown into the middle of this funhouse. And you\’ve done well for\r\nyourself. Mostly, I want to tell you that things just get harder from\r\nhere on out. This is Boston and everyone from the clubhouse boy to the\r\nhot dog vendor to the Jesus freak outside the park is batshit insane.\r\nIt\’s gonna get you too. I hope you\’re ready for it. Prepare the bomb shelter now. “,1] ); //–> <!– D(["mb"," \r\n \r\nSincerely, \r\n~Someone who gives a shit ",1] ); D(["mb","\r\n


"Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned but heaven hath no sweetness like a sports fan vindicated." – Samcat

"Only two things bound to soothe my soul\r\n
Cold beer and remote control." – Amy Ray, Emily Saliers\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n“,0] ); D([“ce”]); D([“ms”,”45a0″] ); //–>

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