Thanks to reader Brian James for reminding me, in the comments section, that I called for Theo to deliver us the magic of Boof Bonser way back in July of 2006. To officially welcome Boof before he gets flipped to another team, I am happy to reprint that magical post right here. Be forewarned: This may induce a fatal hit of Tina Cervasio withdrawal.

If we can’t have Rocket or Lidle or any other starting pitching that, say, hasn’t already been cast off by the Kansas City Royals, might I suggest a call to Minnesota to inquire about Boof Bonser?

I’ll be honest: I know very little if anything at all about Mr. Bonser. But if Theo can’t appreciate the possibilities of bringing a guy named “Boof Bonser” to town, then I’m not so sure I know what to think. Just say that name a couple times to yourself. Boof Bonser. Boof Bonser. Boof Bonser. It kinda rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? And what exactly is “Boof” the shortened form of? Boofington? Boofswan? I could give a shit; I just know I want the guy in Boston. I want to see Yawkey Way full of young kids and hot chicks in “Bonser” T-shirts (or, perhaps he could pull and Ichiro and go with “Boof” on the back of his jersey. Holy god, even cooler!). I wanna hear Remy and D.O. chatting up the Boofster before each of his starts. I want to see Jim Rice and Tom Caron waxing eloquently about Boof during the pre-game show (“As we all know, Boof lives and dies on his breaking ball, so he’s gotta have that working for him.”) And after his first victory at Fenway, I want to watch as Tina Cervasio draws him close, waving her NESN microphone like some sort of magic wand, to deliver the million dollar line: “Welcome to Boston, Boof.” Cue sunset. Cue applause. Cue unstoppable awesomeness.

Theo, please: Bring us Boof Bonser.

Lastly, we begin the countdown to Christmas with the Top Twelve Christmas Songs Ever (in my humble and alcohol-induced opinion). Number Twelve: “Thanks for Christmas,” XTC. This song’s got everything you’d need from a holiday song: Jangling guitars, sleighbells, references to Santa and reindeer, a heartfelt message of hope and a twinge of poignant realism (“It’s such a shame it’s only one day every year / 364 days full of doubts and fears”). Why the radio stations insist on ramming Madonna’s blood-curdling “Santa Baby” down our throats yet ignore this pop gem is further proof that the human race is doomed. Doomed, I tell you.