Stupid Red Sox

To no one's big surprise, they lost. Any of you blogonauts who don't follow the team are probably shaking your heads, your mullets flapping in the breeze, wondering what people like me have to complain about. After all, they won the whole shebang last year, didn't they?

Yes, but this is Boston. Any season that doesn't end with a champagne bath and a Duck Boat parade is considered a failure. The feeling is a bit stronger for the Sox, but it's there for all the other local teams too. Hell, if Boston had its own Special Olympics team, and that team failed to take the most medals, there wouldn't be any hugs. There wouldn't be any "You did your best, so you're all winners." It would just be a bunch of jerks calling in talk radio to yell about how sone kid didn't give one hundred and ten percent or how the coach never should've put little Timmy in the backstroke when he's obviously better in the butterfly.

This is not a fun time of the year. The local media is going to spend the next three months dissecting this team's collapse. Was it Graffanino's error? Johnny's arm? Tito's refusal to sit guys who aren't contributing? The lobotomy Manny's parents must've gotten him for his eighth birthday?

None of the above. It was my stupid ass room mate.

See, he works for the Red Sox. He changes Johnny Pesky's diapers. He combs Johnny's hair 500 times every three hours to eliminate knots. He cuts the crust off Lucchino's sandwiches. He buys Jack Daniels for Millar. The chalk on Trot's hat? He's in charge of rubbing it in. His official job title is Bitch.

And he's a...

You know what, sit down first.

He's a Yankees fan.

That's right. Through my room mate, the Evil Empire has unfettered access to Fenway Park.

For now, Scott Colby is going to protect his identity. He enjoys the fact that "Raul" is paying one third of the rent. He can forgive the occasional discretion, especially since the Yankees don't stand a chance of getting past the Angels.

So "Raul" is now the Mata Hari of the Major Leagues. He introduced the ghost of Bill Buckner to Tony Graffanino. He replaced Millar's whiskey with sparkling cider. He spent an evening arm wrestling with Damon to weaken his already damaged shoulder. He kidnapped Matt Clement's hamster. He put Pesky in diapers that were two sizes too small.

"Raul" should be strung up from the flagpole by his toes. Or packed into a box with a bunch of dead skunks and shipped back to George Steinbrenner. Or locked in the Foggy Goggle for a week and a half.

Luckily, the Red Sox job isn't necessarily permanent. If you are an entrepreneur with an opening in your up and coming company (unfortunately, if you're reading this, you're probably not), please cowboy up and offer it to "Raul." Scott Colby will take you for a ride in Kelly Clarkson's yacht. He'll even make you waffles with the Best Toaster Ever.