The Greatest Blog In the World

Wednesday, October 15, 2003


Mr. October Dept.

Baseball, I have said many times over, is the greatest sport known to man, with the possible exception of bedding frigid supermodels and watching as they slowly thaw under the glowing warmth of my seductive powers. But last time I checked, the latter is not televised. (Unless you count that unfortunate romp with a comely popcorn vendor in the centerfield hotel suite at the Skydome. I have since turned in my exhibitionist card after the interminable, syncopated repetition of "Boo-yah!"by Sportscenter anchor Stuart Scott to every thrust of my hips captured by their prying cameras. If it weren't for my trusty Robin mask, I'd be ruined.)

But I digress.

Last night the Chicago Cubs choked away a three-run lead with their best pitcher on the mound, a mere six outs away from their first World Series trip since the Battle of Hastings in 1066. This delayed one half of a possible Seventh Seal Series featured those lovable, hapless Cubbies and their diamond foils in futility, the profoundly evil Boston Red Sox, who dutifully capitulated to the New York Yankees. The Red Sox have suffered a similar drought in World Series championships, last winning when their ancestors in the English Imperial Rounders League, the Shropshire Long-Stockinged Dandies, at the high tea immediately following the signing of the Magna Carta in 1215.

Should the Cubs outlast the Florida Marlins (yes, Billy, there's a team in Florida -- actually, two) and the Red Sox rally to
beat the Yankees, it is quite likely that the existence as we know it will cease to exist. I can't tell you if it will be by fire or by ice, but I can assure you that the suffering of Cubs and Red Sox fans is the glue that tenuously holds together the fabric of our universe. I am not being melodramatic. I saw The End in a little-death vision at the conclusion of my first supermodel sandwich, and the melting faces of Sammy Sosa and Nomar Garciaparra haunt me still.

Please, Sox and Cubs, don't steam off the envelope glue of the infinite just to "Reverse the Curse*" or "Beat to Death the Billy Goat**." I like my life, and it would be much harder to enjoy my escapades if everything is reduced to primordial soup.

Go Yankees.

[*The Curse of the Bambino, incurred when the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees following their last World Series championship.]

[**The Curse of the Billy Goat, incurred when Ernie "Mr. Cub" Banks bedded a one-legged Southside Chicago prostitute nicknamed "the Billy Goat" after her signature sexual feat, which is far too filthy to describe here, but almost certainly involved pine tar, a weighted baseball bat donut, and a Polish sausage.]

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."
If You Like Bunsen, Then You'll Love Bunsen