Cries of a Redsock Fan

Monday, The Boston Globule disconnected the feed tube to some tweedy, half-testicled bigwig’s nephew – the name, Kevin Cullen -- long enough for him to scrawl some pussy words about the Yankees into the feces on his playpen wall.

His problem? He got junk mail from the Yankees.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing, could prepare me for opening my mailbox and finding a white envelope embossed with Yankee blue.

"My hands shook uncontrollably. I broke into a cold sweat. I had the dry
heaves.

"Inside, there was a glossy booklet, the 2008 ticket information and fan
guide, titled, 'The Final Season.'

Hot stuff, eh? Junk mail from the Yankees. Stop the presses. Next week, maybe a call from State Farm Insurance. So he squeezed out a column.

He wrote short sentences. It’s neat. It’s easy. It’s like dictating to the cat. Hemmingway would love this guy. Did Papa write about junk mail? He should have.

So here’s the kicker. (Caution: Giveaway ending.)

"Call me old if you must.

"Just don’t call me a Yankee fan."

In the name of Peter Updike Gammons, we would never do that.

Nope.

You, Mr. Bartolo Cullen, are a Redsock fan.

You are a tedious, bathrobed and bug-eyed, Velcro-wrist-support wearing “Please-love-me!” editorial board good-heart, the type who dreams of Irma Bombeck, fearless to the world except for complex sentences, which send you slithering back into your rat hole of Redsock Babbitry.

You hear?

Listen-up, Tinkerbell, if you had any interest in being interesting, you’d read your mail and taste the Dark Side, because we are smoking Turkish cigarettes, drinking flaming shots and churning out the junk letters that turn your knees into melted Hershey Bars, that is, when your balls aren’t gunking-up from thoughts of Neil Diamond, shirtless.

There are reasons, sir, why you are no Yankee fan.

For starters, your hands shake when you get the mail.

You sweat too much.

Nope. You are where you belong.

Living in fear.