According to recent reports, the Sox floated yet another trade for Manny Ramirez, this time asking the Angels to take the Manster in exchange for Ervin Santana, Chone Figgins and a handful of prospects. Folks, that’s like Kathy Bates’ husband asking Dave Navarro to straight-up swap for Carmen Electra. You know it ain’t gonna happen, but at least you made the effort. Which is really all the Sox are supposed to be doing.
And I’m glad he’ll be sticking around. Because my man-love for Manny is immense beyond anything your puny human brains can contain. I don’t give a flying handshake if he sets up a bed and nightstand in left field, stops the game every inning to take a dump and read the latest Maxim in the secret bathroom behind the Monster scoreboard, or listens to The Little River Band on his iPod while a game is in progress. Okay, that last point would have me questioning his taste in music, perhaps, but not his ability to play the game. Or, more specifically, his ability to scare holy beejesus out of any opposing pitcher he faces.
Who cares if the guy can’t find it in himself to remember how many outs there are per inning? When you’re Kevin Youkilis, and your offensive contribution is limited to striking out with the bases loaded once per game, then, yeah, such behavior a crime. But if you’re Manny? Christ almighty, I don’t give a f–k if the guy forgets to wear his goddam pants to the ballpark.
And we’re not even mentioning what the guy brings you in sheer entertainment value alone. His goofy grin, airheaded mugging and incessant pointing at the camera after every homerun is one of the things that make him and this team so goddam endearing to the masses. Dumb as a box of hammers? Maybe, but who gives a f–k? There’s a reason we pay $500 to wedge our asses into undersized seats and gorge ourselves on warm beer and greasy hotdogs. And that reason is watching Manny tear the hide off the ball. If we’re gonna harbor any illusions of hanging with the Yankees and Blue Jays in 2006, we gotta keep the guy around.
And with that, I’m off. Denton will be your host for the balance of the week. Keep it real, peeps.
Oh, and this is the single greatest thing to come out of SNL since Charles Rocket dropped the F-bomb many moon ago.