What better way to wash all the dirty of last night’s loss from our collective mouths than watching Giambi, A-Rod, Cano and company get hamstrung, hogtied and generally mussed-up by our own Josh Beckett. The guy drops F-bombs during televised press conferences, man. Think a bunch of pin-striped steroid cases are gonna put a scare on him?
Neither do I. To put it in perspective, I logged last night’s game as an “L” long before it played out in all its awfulness, figuring Matsuzaka would melt like a scoop of cherry ice cream on Scarlett Johansson’s arse. So after giving them a little taste of what it might feel like to crawl back into the division race, we need only slam the door, leaving them slackjawed and broken.
In other words, we take the next two. Knock that magic number down to seven. Bask in the glory of the possibility of a postseason without the Yankees. Because, honestly, I’d like to be done with those f@#kers after Sunday.
And here’s some clubhouse bulletin board material, courtesy of the New York Post:
The Yankees did not stop hitting in the inning until they had scored six runs. They did not stop hitting until they had damaged Okajima, who had so tortured them early in the season, and also stomped on Papelbon. So that means they did not stop hitting until they had done another job on the Red Sox’s supposedly superior pitching and also on Boston’s psyche.
“Supposedly superior pitching”? Good luck pulling those Beckett fastballs out of your lower intestines, Giambi.
