Ladies, since the All-Star break, you have played twelve games. And of those twelve games, you have won approximately four. Four measly [email protected]#king games. So I am left to conclude that you have forgotten something. Something very important. Something so [email protected]#king important, that it should be the only thing crawling around inside your worthless headspace. You are the defending World Champion Boston Red Sox. Do you hear me? You’re not the Houston Astros, Seattle Mariners or the Copenhagen Twatmonkeys, but my beloved World Champion Boston Red Sox. Teams shouldn’t be walking onto your field, your house, your place of business and treating you like a [email protected]#king immigrant family that’s squatting here illegally. This is your [email protected]#king house, and your job is to protect it. And your weapon of choice in this regard is your bat. Your bat is your instrument of destruction. It is a part of you. You should be sleeping with it, eating with it, dressing it up all fancy and taking it out to the movies when appropriate, and, most importantly, respecting it. For it is the tool that God has given you to protect your house and rain boatloads of shit down on those who would oppose you. How do you use this tool? By swinging it like a [email protected]#ker and actually hitting the ball. But I look at recent box scores and realize that some of you have forgotten how to do this. That is why you fail. That is why the Anaheim Angels scored twenty-two runs to your pathetic nine. That is why God now wants to smite you by taking away your Manny Ramirez, the only [email protected]#ker in this whole forsaken troop who actually remembers what his bat is for. Who’s gonna step up to the challenge when he’s gone? You, Private Tek? Or you, Private Crisp? Bullshit, I’ve seen haddocks with a better swing. Maybe Private Ellsbury would like to take the candy out of his ass and prove that what we saw during last year’s playoffs wasn’t some disgusting aberration that we’ll never see again. You’re not going anywhere until all of you greasebags decide that you’ve had enough and you want to start winning again. And that this house, this team and that trophy are all worth fighting for.

Now get down on your faces so Colonel Timlin can administer the post-game wedgies.