Screw you guys, I'm taking my ball and going home

Here are some reasons why Boston blows...

1) Red Sox fans, drunk and sweating on the un-air-conditioned T.

2) The T, summer, fall, spring or winter, it always sucks.

3) A 3-bedroom house costs, literally, 14.8 billion dollars. Inflation's a bitch.

4) College students, and their rock music, and loose lifestyles.

5) The Charles River. I suppose I should have some allegiance to it, but screw that noise. It's inconveniently located, and smelly, and cold. 

6) Frappes. It's a milkshake, you freaks! You are not French!

7) The accent. Not the accent itself, which I actually enjoy. I'm more aggravated by all the crappy imitations. For me, it's the original, or nothing. That's why I hate people who cover Britney Spears; no one else can do her justice.

8) Northeastern liberalism, Southern segregation. The city is like a Dalmatian: a black spot in a sea of white leftist guilt. 

9) Somerville, little annoying brother to know-it-all Cambridge. "Ooh! Ooh! Cambridge, check it out! We hate Israel too! Look! Just because we don't have Harvard or MIT, we're still cool, right? Can we come hang out with you and the South End? We've got those cool girl jeans, and hoodies, and everything!"

10) Beacon Hill. Not much of a hill, really, is it. Pompous pricks.

11) Hey, we have inadequate public transportation, we fight parking garage construction because we like our city to be pretty, not functional...let's make it illegal to park on the street! Yeah! That way, we get to ticket cars for pretty much anything!

12) The Commons is actually, get this, a park. But don't call it that, because that would be what normal cities do.

12)  I just...I just thought we had something. We had good times, right, Boston? Remember that one time, in the Commons? We had a bottle of wine, and watched the sunset, and talked about our feelings. Didn't you enjoy that? I just feel like, you know, we've been drifting apart. You never tell me what you're thinking about, or how your day is...maybe it's time we went our separate ways. 

So... goodbye. The Fancy Pants are packing it in, and moving to another town. One with...other...things...for...people. So, yeah. Bye.

Glory be to Kali

Someday someone will learn. And from then on Devin Hester will be no more than a talisman, an ancient cursed relic standing, waiting behind the wedge of blockers for a kick that will never come. Until then he's going to keep running them right up your ass.

Although if he's going to keep catching bombs between over and under'ed double coverage, defensive coordinators are going to have to start leaving sacrifices of virgins and bulls of magnificent carriage for the omnipotent Kali. Oh, and his celestial sidekick, the Great Neckbeard.

The defense was not so transcendent, but Alex Brown seemed to slither and storm through the Saints' line like some sort of snakey hurricane. Maybe, in all this talk of Mark Anderson and Tommie Harris, he finally said to himself, in the darkness before his nightly slumber, "Why not me? Wherein shall my name be proclaimed to the very heights?" And finally the gods responded: "Make some fucking plays, Alex!" And so he did.

Today the offseason begins. There are playoffs this year, so I'm told, but they'll be dominated by some team from, I think, Vermont. Pot-smoking hippies and bloody communists, for all I know. Meanwhile I'll be building a new altar to Kali, wondering what we'll have to give up for McNabb, and hoping against hope that we don't let Lance Briggs go without some sort of compensation in the form of draft picks or some undiscovered magnificent linebacker. Just like Briggs. Or we could, you know, try and keep him. Just a thought.

Don't Miss Me

I'll only be gone a week. There's hot dogs in the freezer, and please don't forget to feed Mr. Slippy. He gets anxious if he doesn't get his Rocky Mountain Oysters every morning.

If you must rent porn, keep the volume down. The neighbors don't like to be overshadowed in their "bellows of lust."