Funny what an All-Star Game can do.

Coupla weeks back, the Yanks were literally the furthest thing from my mind, tucked somewhere between the films of Rob Schneider and wondering what Ringo Starr might be wearing. Then the All-Star Game happened. And watching those backwards-ass f@#ks in the stands booing Tito and the rest of the Sox–the World Champion Sox, might I add–helped re-stoke the passion. The passion… of hatred!

So now I’m all good and riled up for this series, hoping that sometime around 8:30pm tonight, I’m watching Kevin Youkilis stick a parking cone up A-Rod’s ass. And I shall never forget that the classic battle between good and evil never truly ends. Even if these days, evil isn’t so much the 600-pound pinstriped gorilla it used to be, but is more like a slightly tougher version of “Jughead” from the Archie comics.

Tonight, we get Papi but no Manny. Nevertheless, when the Sox are at home, trying to beat them is like trying to kick Rocky’s ass in Philadelphia, or knock Zeus off Mount Olympus. And with a crowd of venomous, Pabst-fueled fans behind him, with their Madonna masks and foam fingers and anti-Joba signs at the ready, I can’t imagine Commander Kick-Ass not turning this game into his own dinner theatre version of Deliverance, starring the New York Yankees as Ned Beatty. There, I said it. F@#k karma and the fates. I want to see Johnny Pesky flash his onions at the entire New York bench during the pre-game while just outside the park, Timlin “adjusts” the brakes on Jeter’s Mercedes.

Let it ride, my brothers and sisters. The time for maximum carnage and ass kickery… is now!


Any questions?