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Monday, May 19, 2003

 

Why God Hates the Red Sox: a FAQ



Excuse me for a moment while I turn my attention to baseball, the greatest game in the land unless you count dating a stripper.

Today begins a stretch in which the New York Yankees will play the Boston Red Sox six times in ten days.

In other words, baseball Armageddon.

Some of you may be be unfamiliar with the Greatest Rivalry in All of Sport.

In in the interest of serving you, here is a primer to better help you understand what's going on:

As of this writing, the Yankees and Red Sox are tied for first place in the American League East. The American League is the part of major league baseball where we don't have to watch pitchers try and hit a splitter. Pitchers are the ones who throw the ball at the guys who hold the bats, large wooden sticks used for depositing baseballs onto the field of play. Pitchers hit a baseball about as well as you, the layman with the spare tire brought about by multiple cans of domestic beer, can date a stripper.

As for the teams involved, the Yankees are the most successful franchise in the history of professional sport, unless you count the lions against the Christians in the Ballpark at the Coliseum.

The Red Sox, by comparison, have not won the World Series in roughly six thousand years. They did come close in 1986, but mistakenly thought it was a good idea to let David Hasselhoff play a little first base in Game Six just because his talking car said he'd look as good in a Boston uniform as he did in a cheap leather jacket and a pair of Vidal Sassoons. I do not personally think he looked that good. The 1986 Nielsen ratings bear out the talking car's viewpoint, and the New York Mets' victory in that series illustrated Hasselhoff's glovework.

The Yankees are caviar and filet mignon.

The Red Sox are cigarette butts in the bottom of a day-old glass of lemonade.

The Yankees are the cure for cancer.

The Red Sox are the whooping cough.

The Yankees are a shoulder massage from your stripper girlfriend's best girlfriend from work, whom she brought home to spice things up, which turns into a foot massage, which turns into three days of sexual exploration that good taste dictates are not repeated in a primer on baseball rivalries.

The Red Sox are a swift kick in the balls from your ex that still has your favorite T-shirt.

It is said that God is a Yankees fan.

It is further said that God puts up with the Red Sox only because Judeo-Christian dogma says He has to.

There's this thing called the Curse of the Bambino, wherein the owner of the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth, the greatest baseball player that ever lived, to the Yankees for a barrel of pickled herring and a twirl with a harlot with a wooden leg. This supposedly explains the disparity in the successes of the two baseball teams.

I say, see the God thing above and get back to me.

Two hours until the first pitch. You know where I'll be.



About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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