I avoid bringing up Red Sox talk for a variety of reasons. Firstly, I am aware it is totally meaningless. Secondly, most of you are from parts of the word where a ball being hit by a stick by some rich asshole isn’t the center of the universe. Thirdly, it invites a lot of mouth-breathing douches named Murph and Sully to think I have something in common with them. (I don’t. You’ah fuckin’ boring muthafuckas. Also, that girl from Lynn you’re hitting on probably has herpes.)
But alas, for some inexplicable reason, I am quite fond of the olde towne team. The past month and a half has been magnifico. I’ve been around long enough to know things will turn to shit soon enough, so I’m going to gloat now before Craig can shit on me once the Yankees lay on the money bags.
Unrelated, but Craig has a genuine, authentic photo of a Johns Hopkins Rape Whistle from our freshman year orientation fun bucket on his site. That whistle taught me that while rape is never funny, rape-prevention-related accessories can be.