Sometimes, after particularly spirit-crushing Red Sox loses, Red is visited by the Ghost of Butch Hobson. Yesterday, another such sighting occured, and we present the transcript here as evidence:

Red [watching game]: Seven runs over 1.1 innings for The Emancipator? Sounds like gin time to me.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Wanna hook me up, too? I’m feeling a bit parched.

Red [falls over couch]: The Ghost of Butch Hobson! Harbinger of all things bad concerning the Red Sox! What are you doing here?

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Just checking out the game. [Points to Red's sandwich] Hey, got any more of those kickin’ around?

Red: We’re settling into the stretch drive. Where every game is more important than the last. We’re a measly one and a half games above the Yankees. And now you show up. So this can’t be good.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: No, no. You misunderstand. I’m just here to hang out. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.

Red: How I’m doing? I’ll tell you how I’m doing. I’m getting dangerously close to kicking it October 2004 style, you hear? I’m not sleeping, barely taking in three squares a day. With Cleveland busting so much ass, I’m starting to think the only way we’re getting into the postseason is by winning the AL East. And it’s not exactly soothing my nerves, you see.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: You overestimate the opposition. Sure, Clement chewed bag today. But the rest of the starting crew’s looking frighteningly pretty. Even that Wells character.

Red: October’s coming up too soon for my taste. We need another month. More time for Edgah to find his glove and bat. More time for Tek to get into an offensive groove. More time for the Schill-Dog to get born again hard.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: More time for Lynn Jones to get a license for his proposed Moustache Rides booth.

Red: Ick.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Ah, it’s just something they’ll be working on this offseason. So as we slide into the final weeks of the season, you’re feeling a bit… anxious, eh?

Red: I spent the first half of the season in the post-coital glow of a World Series win. The last several months have been spent catching up with the 2005 team and wondering when the first place lead is gonna evaporate. It hasn’t yet, but it’s so close. Too close. My god, imagine a four way tie with us, Anaheim, Cleveland and New York? A round of playoffs to see who makes the first round of playoffs? I don’t think there’s enough Jaeger in all of Chelsea to get me through it…

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Oh, and too bad about Ortiz getting hit by that pitch. But I hear broken wrists only take a few months to truly heal.

Red: Er… what are you talking about?

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Huh? Isn’t this Thursday?

Red: No, it’s Monday. You’re saying Papi’s going down with a season-ending injury? My god… it can’t be.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: [Checking calendar on his Blackberry.] Damn, it is Monday. Hey, forget what I just said.

Red: You can’t just leave like that. What’s gonna happen to Ortiz?

Ghost of Butch Hobson: [Shuffling toward front door] No, no. I’ve already said far too much.

Red faints.