Hello. Steinbrenner here. Mister Steinbrenner to you. Or, as I’m also known in various parts: Big George, The Boss, and “Balls” O’Sullivan.

Enough with the niceties. I’ve co-opted this blog device today to communicate an important message to all you young, computer-savvy gals and fellows that make up Red Sox Nation.

And that message is: We’re not afraid of you.

Don’t get me wrong; there are some things that we here at Yankees, Inc. are very much afraid of. Like that used jockstrap Mondesi supposedly hid in my office right before he left us. Or that horrific mutant one of our scientists inadvertedly hatched during the now-infamous Thurman Munson gene splicing episode. Or watching Mariano apply the Gold Bond Powder. I’ll give you a hint on just how bad that last one is: he’s hired some dwarves to help him.

But one thing we’re not afraid of is your Boston Red Sox.

Sure, you’re playing well, with, what, eight wins in a row now? Believe you me, we had long since designated this block of your schedule as “clinch week.” You’ve far exceeded our expectations, however, and seem to be pulling away from your fellow second-class citizens in the Wild Card Club. But you’re not getting anywhere near the top of the division. Forget about it. Ain’t gonna happen. Not on my watch. Trust me on this… a couple of phone calls from me, and it’ll be raining frogs and fake beards all over Kenmore Square.

Our pitching staff? Sure, there’ve been troubles. I’m even willing to admit that Loaiza was the biggest mistake I’ve made since co-signing that auto loan for Darryl Strawberry. But on a cold October night in Yankee Stadium, when it’s Mussina vs. Arroyo and Bruce Willis is hanging his naked ass over the first base railing, who do you like? And El Duque? That bitch was made for the playoffs. That’s when he straps on the bionic arm, coverts to an all-bacon-and-woodchips diet, and dresses up as Che Guevara in the locker room. As for Kevin Brown… well, let’s just say that once my men have perfected his exo-skeleton, our boy Kevvie will not only be throwing 125 miles and hour, but will also be signing a lucrative crime-fighting deal with the city of Pittsburgh.

You see, when it comes to the playoffs, we cannot allow ourselves to be beaten by the Red Sox. The 2003 World Series? The D-Backs? The Angels? Yeah, those hurt. But I can live with them. Getting taken out by Boston? That wouldn’t stand. Think I wanna spend the rest of my days dodging catcalls from every pale Irish drunkard from West Roxbury to Southie? And my troops know this. And nobody wants to upset the guy who controls the attack sequence codes for the Killer Robot Army.

So I think you should enjoy the rest of the season. Really, it’s been a lot of fun this year, especially that brawl at Fenway. I’ll admit to chuckling a bit when your players took down Sturtze. Hell, I had a coupla my own guys work him over last night after that showing against Cleveland. But three and a half games is as close as you’re getting. That is, if Torre ever wants to see his family again…