Periodic lengthy updates and funny columns on a variety of topics. Plus sometimes I post pictures of myself, and I'm damn sexy, so you don't wanna miss out.

Friday, October 17, 2003

I'm not sure anymore if there's a God, but it's fairly clear that supernatural gears are at work in our lives. Don't believe in curses? Neither did I, before this week. Okay, maybe just a little. But I tell you now, curses are real and at work in our lives.

The Boston Righteous would slay me for saying it. "There's no curse, you idiot! Harrumph, Harrumph!" They're just kidding themselves, the naifs. The Curse of the Bambino is alive and well, and spanking their asses.

Actually, it's not so much a curse as it is a demonic possession. The Boston Red Sox are possessed by Satan's minions. The Sox are owned, outright; no lien on that property. The Yanks made a $125,000 balloon payment in 1919 (not to mention the $350,000 loan) and have been dumping on the land ever since.

Ask yourself: your starting pitcher has done fine up to this point, only allowing two home runs and no other runs at all. It's the bottom of the 8th, one out. He's got two men on, the tying run at the plate. He's thrown almost 120 pitches, despite worries of his arm being sore at the beginning of the game. You take him out, right? No way you could leave him in in this situation. No rational human being would let Pedro continue to pitch, particularly the way the Sox bullpen has been knocking down batters like clay pigeons. What does the Sox manager, Grady Little (or as I like to call him, "Moron"), do?

No contest. Any rationality left in Little at this point has been completely suppressed by the demons, the voices in his head. Pedro stays in. 5 minutes later, the three-run lead has disappeared like the dodo, taking with it my girlish laughter and much of my dignity. After that it was merely a matter of waiting for the Yankees to make the game-winning play; Aaron Boone swings at the first pitch of the bottom of the 11th, and the game is over.

The Cubs' curse is more mundane, which makes it all the more humiliating. They can't get to a World Series because of a freakin' GOAT. (Also because their shortstop bobbles easy plays and contributes to giving up 8 runs in 2 outs.) In their case, though, there is a simple solution. ATTENTION WRIGLEY FIELD FRONT OFFICE: GET A DAMN GOAT INTO THE STADIUM FOR ALL GAMES.

The Red Sox problem is not so easily solved, although getting rid of Dan Duquette was a good start. How do you remove a hex based on a man that died in 1948? I don't think digging his piano out of the harbor is going to square things, but it would at least be worth a try. Maybe pour a bottle of scotch on his grave.

In the end, I guess it doesn't matter. There are more important things in life to worry about than baseball. Such as when Andy Reid is going to give his crappy West Coast Offense the heave. (#@%&ing Eagles.)


Give the Governor a Harrumph! You watch your ass.
Comments? Questions? Quizno's got you down? Shoot an email to spam(at)matthearn(dot)com and complain away. I won't listen, but at least you'll have the satisfaction of knowing you DID something with your day.

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