It’s hard to imagine picking cotton for an employer who doesn’t respect 500 home runs and two World Series rings, but that’s what Manny Ramirez is facing, after a long, heady glance directly into the Redsock Nation's tartar-toothed, acid-breathed jaws of hell.
The other day, Manny politely requested a few extra tickets to a ballgame in Florida -- 18 or so, not even two dozen -- and you’d think he birthed a Pauly Shore onto Theo Epstein’s ceremonial peace tapestry.
The other day, Manny politely requested a few extra tickets to a ballgame in Florida -- 18 or so, not even two dozen -- and you’d think he birthed a Pauly Shore onto Theo Epstein’s ceremonial peace tapestry.
Next thing you knew, a 64-year-old team executive named McCormick – insert image of craggy white Bostonian with nose full of hair and broken blood vessels – was yowling the words that poor Manny hasn't heard in the last 15 years: Sorry, no.
So what did Manny do? What anybody would do.
So what did Manny do? What anybody would do.
He set down his Rhonda Byrne self-help book and picked up his Rhonda Byrne self-help fists.
He shoved the ungrateful geezer to the ground and, hopefully, pounded into the starched old fool a lesson about respect, assuming the guy remembers any of it. (Insert image of old, craggy white Bostonian weaving across sidewalk leaving trail of broken glass and broken wind.)
Now this: Shaughnny – the Tokyo Rose of the Redsock Nation – has taken to whining about Mr. Manny again.
Now this: Shaughnny – the Tokyo Rose of the Redsock Nation – has taken to whining about Mr. Manny again.
Just aint fair.
Comon, Manny. Next time you see one of those fatcat Redsock execs, the ones who are stealing all your tickets, think two words: Swinnnnnnnnnng, battahhhhh!
Manny signed the burner on that grill I bought off of him, and it came off when I first used it! Jerk.
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