For most of our lives, poor and earnest Redsock fans whinnied about the avalanche of Yankee gold that ruined their lives. Though the Boston faithful - the Chosen Tribe of Fenweh- faced a torturous life, these true believers somehow maintained their conga line of virtue, while the fat cat Yankees bought their pennants. In 2004, it was no less than a Miracle - God's personal rehab intervention - when the plucky Socks reenacted the battle of Thermopylae and defeated the Million Yankee Persian Army, a moment enshrined forever in yacht rock.
Today, we Yankee fans - mere useless, groveling toads of morality - should be grateful for the chance to host these righteous heroes. Let us kneel before the Two Happy Hobos of the Hub - Pablo Sandoval and Rusney Castillo - who for the next three years will cost Boston $75 million, without a hit. And tomorrow night, we shall gaze upon the great David Price, who'll take home more than $31 million per season through 2022, the highest paid pitcher in the universe. They make Jacoby Ellsbury look like a steal, and $130,000 payouts to porn stars look like parking tickets. The Redsocks have a $233 million payroll, almost $40 million more than Food Stamps Hal's army of nickels.
Tonight, if there is a rare moment of quiet, bend to your television or radio device and listen carefully; you will hear the ghosts of Redsock fans chanting about Yankee money. Don't get angry. It should only make us feel melancholy. They always wanted to be the New York Fucking Yankees. Now, they know what it can feel like. The poor bastards.
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We are a happy lot out here in the Low”lala”Lands.
We seldom pout, we see opportunities and backpat accomplishments.
When we see a wrong we want to right it, when we see suffering we try to heal it. And thus, once a couple of hundred years ago we became a colonial superpower that only lately starts to come to grips with the darker pages of our heritage. We always see the bright side!
We have the right mindset. We are accountable and we disgust those who are stuck in little white lies, unable to look at themselves and only point to others. We stand for permanent growth and chances. And change of course and happiness for all.
If you ever have a chance to visit Holland, also known as the Netherlands where the Dutch live, the sense of rightfulness, upstanding attitudes and solemn effort is likely to overwhelm you. (ask the Black Swan).
We produce pleasure. From the red light district to XTC to cannabis to Sir Didi.
We bring joy to places even Yankee fans find difficult to pronounce with Caribbean grown talent like Boogaerts, Schoop, Simmons, Jansen and Profar. And never forget Robert Eenhoorn.
In short, never ever think we are less than 100% positive, committed to whatever you want and ridiculously happy.
Can anyone please explain why it is an achievement to have the best record in baseball when you play teams that are either trying to reach the bottom or ones that have already emptied their bowels to play <.250 ball?
What is the fun of it?
Or, how broken is the system.
And then we didn't even know about the payroll.
Live like horses
Hear, hear, Duque!
And hear, hear, Urban Farmer.
Your brief moment of colonialism, of course, founded our fair city. More importantly, it planted the DNA that led us to generally favor tolerance, and a love of enjoyment and making money over strict ideology.
Sure, there were some bad things. Slaughtering the native inhabitants, and bringing over slaves from Africa, of course—but what Europeans in America did NOT do that? At least your countrymen chased the Swedes out of New Jersey, even if they later snuck back with their (not really Swedish) meatballs at Ikea.
It is wonderful to read the chronicles of the ever intolerant, religious fundamentalist, Stuyvesant, and how he kept trying to keep out everyone else: Jews, Baptists, Catholics, Quakers.
Each time, the Dutch West Indies Company back home slapped him down, and said No, you idiot, a tolerant colony will attract people. When the English showed up with their cannons, they sent him off to his farm—the Bouwerie—with a big pension, and the promise that he would get one big Broadway show-stopper.
In the meantime, reaction to him led to one of the great steps forward in civil liberties here, the Flushing Remonstrance for religious freedom. Today, of course, the Flushing remonstrance is made by Mets fans, desperate to be free of the Wilpons.
Peg Leg Pete, as his subjects mockingly called him, clapped the original petitioners in irons, and threw them in jail. Mets fans will get bit as much relief, I'm afraid.
They better not start referring to themselves as The Evil Empire. That moniker is taken and will never be relinquished.
Hear> Hear> Triple HEAR> Urban Farmer, El Duque and Ho66, you always provide this blog with insight, history, and the radiance of enlightenment!!!!
I am sorry to interject with this:
Whatever happens (they sweep us, we sweep them, or something else) -- on Friday, it will still be only May 11th.
The last NYYs game of the season will be played in Boston (as will the 2 before that).
On Sept 28-29-30.
Back to life, back to reality,
back to life, back to reality,
back to life, back to reality,
back to the here and now yeah
Show me how, decide what you want from me,
tell me maybe I could be there for you.
LETS GET 'EM...
LETS GET 'EM ALL, WHILE WE GOT THE MUSCLE.
(JOE PANTANGELESE- GODFATHER I).
Duque, O' dear sweet Duque, you speak truth like a long drink of cool clean water to a tired thirsty man. I shall gambol and cavort about my office later, pants on head, willing the ruin of the vile Bostonian rabble, miserable benighted fuckers that they are.
And where shall I post my thoughts about the game as it unfolds like a delicate flower? Here? Or will there be a new field in which to sow my thoughts?
That’s some unusual juju you practice there, WinWarblist.
KD, that ju-ju took us all the way to Game 7 of the ALCS last year. And I was at the Leyritz game. And Game 2 of the 2009 ALCS. A bitterly cold night that was and yet running about (chased by security? the memory fails) screaming with pants on head guided the sweet spot of the bat of the Mighty A-Rod to the ball in the bottom of the 11th. It was witnessed by all in our section before I was felled by concession stand dysentery.
Screaming. Pants on head. Running about. It's my thing. Join me. I welcome the company.
Pants on head!
Pants on head!
The Bronx expects every fan to put his pants on his head!
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