Red Sox Score: Love All


Boston media has finally jumped on our sarcastic bandwagon.

Last season the Boston bum-kissing media were having more orgasms than a happy hooker. This season, dressed as austere Puritans, media have returned with stocks for the Boston Common.

Fans who want to throw rotten tomatoes at the key non-players are encouraged to do so.

Not since the championship year of Koufax and Drysdale has a team had so little offense to support its pitchers. Only this is not a champion team, and the starting pitchers are starting to look more like the 1964 Mets rotation.

The Red Sox have become Seward’s Folly. Around Fenway the chill is palpable for Cherington’s Folly.

Stephen Drew has pulled his Brink’s truck up to the Sox box office and cleaned the place out. Last time we looked he went 0 for 4 (again) and was batting .125. That is not only below the Mendoza Line, it is a kick below the belt. He took the Cherington family jewels too.

Media members are now concluding that Dustin Pedroia’s career is in the downswing and David Ortiz is, at long last, reaching blowhard status.

In the on-deck circle is John Farrell waiting to morph into Bobby Valentine.

For those who deal in human misery, this team is a godsend.

For those who expected a repeat World Series, this team is your worst nightmare.

They can’t score a run. They can’t do the fundamentals to eke out a victory. They mostly eeek like they see a mouse.

Boston’s all-sports networks on radio and television are now actually watching soccer and the World Cup with fake enthusiasm. When the Red Sox tank, ‘u got 2 do what u got 2 do’—to borrow a phrase from the Twitter generation.

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