The Red Sox are trying to kill me. It's a fucking conspiracy, people. And it doesn't just hurt me. It hurts everyone. Okay, everyone who knows me. Just ask Leigh or Jeremy, who almost got killed last night due to Sox-induced rage whilst driving and listening to the game on EEI. And I don't know who brings children to Game On! during a Sox game, but they shouldn't be surprised if their children hear "fucking pussy bitches!" if the Sox are swinging like they've never seen a baseball before. That is not my fault.
Tonight, I was fairly confident that I was going to have to impale myself on something incredibly dull when the Sox were down yet again to the D-Rays and were swinging at Waechter like he was the reincarnation of Cy fucking Young. So what did I do to calm myself? Yup, I brought out the cross-stitch sampler that I've been working on since before my nephew was born four years ago. Perhaps you're thinking that meticulous work that involves a needle and scissors is not the best idea for an evening with the Red Sox (and after repeatedly poking myself with the needle during the fifth inning, I might have agreed with you). However, the needlework worked, and the boys finally fucking scored when they needed to. It was a miracle. Okay, and it was still the D-Rays, but I'm taking it where I can get it, people.
With humble thanks to Nietzsche for the post title.
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