Holy jeebus, I had the most unbelievable dream. Jon Lester was in it, but it wasn’t the real Jon Lester. It was this guy who gave up shitloads of runs, had a 5-point-something ERA strapped to his back like a yak carcass, and looked lost and confused on the mound, as if struggling to figure out how his mojo slipped away in a fingersnap.

Good thing I woke up to find the Real Jon Lester kicking arse and taking names. A ridiculous twenty-three strikeouts over his last two games, flirtation with a no-hitter through six and one-third innings last night, and a full arsenal of pitches–cutter, curve, two-seamer, fastball, you name it–working like a Jamaican at the trombone parade. Last night’s game was perhaps his best ever–in some ways even better than the no-no he hurled last year. He was a veritable strike-out machine, working the Rangers hitters like some of those Thunderbirds marionettes and dropping into the Charles any lingering doubts that he’d truly turned a corner during his last start in Toronto. And it came almost two years to the day that Curt Schilling threw a majestic near no-no.

The offense, meanwhile, simply stomped Texas pitching to a fine paste, with Papi earning his second home run and, more importantly, perhaps finally finding his groove. So think about it: If Ortiz’ bat catches fire and Beckett and Lester are truly back to being Automatic Ass-Kicking Machines and the rest of our pitching holds up — Wakefield has seven wins with more than a month to go ’til the All Star Break for chrissakes — then who, I ask, can stop us?

These are magical days, my friends. Negative vibes are simply not allowed.