Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Ellsbury Is A Yankee. And I Guess I Don't Care.

Maybe it's the victorious and luscious scent of duck boat fumes that has given Sawx Nation a lasting contact high.  It has for this particular fan, anyway.  You see, I have absolutely no feelings about Jacoby Ribsbury packing up and shipping his speedy ass off to the Bronx.  I'm not wikkid pissed about it and I don't sense many Hose fans are kavetching over his departure.  Now... don't get me wrong.  This fukker is good and even fahkin' awesome at times.  He's gonna be a bitch to play against for 19 games and will likely steal more a hurricane looter against the likes of Davey Ross and AJ Prickface.  He's probably gonna go yahd a shit ton of times over the whiffle ball fence in right field, too.  Normally, when a dude leaves the friendly confines at Yawkey Way for the Land of 27 Rings on 161st Street, it renders him an evil sumbitch that can stir up more hatred and vitriol than if he had had a threesome with your wife and your dog.  But I don't feel it this time.  I think that the Empire is in such pitiful straits these days that seeing them ink yet another long term contract actually gives us a little sportsgasm here in Beantown.  It's cute that while they are trying to dig themselves out from under one certain asshole and his hundred year deal, they sign a fast running, slow healing centerfielder to a seven year deal.  The Sawx tried the seven year deal thing a few years ago and that worked out as well as a Lindsey Lohan rehab stay.  Were it not for Magic Johnson, we'd still be bitchin' about chicken and beer instead of wondering what goes best with a World Series ring.


So fare thee well, Jacoby.  Thanks for everything you have done to bring two parades to Boylston Street.  I blame you not for taking the money and running.  Anyone of us would do the same thing... so good luck.  And, Master Jake, thoust then shall prepare to have thine ass booed off the fahkin' chahts next April.  Cuz it's what we do.  It's not personal.  Just business.  Go fuck yourself.  (Okay, maybe just a little bitterness...)

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