THE DEATH OF ME . . .

The American League Championship Series is going to be the death of me. Fourteen innings ... is this truly necessary? My heart can't take it. Rapid beat, shortness of breath, inability to sit still. The getting on base, the getting off base, the leaving them stranded, the caught pop-flies, the nick-of-time double plays, the strike-outs, the empty bullpens. Gentlemen, you are NOT good for my health. Even knowing that the stupid, STUPID, Boston fans are sitting out in the 42-degree cold suffering greatly and hoping vainly for a miraculous comeback does not soothe me.

And yet, like a besotted lover, I can't look away, I can't leave, I can't even freakin' go to sleep.

Even more unsatisfying to imagine ... after the past three exhausting days, should my boys clinch tonight (and Lord, PLEASE let it be to-NIGHT), I can't even picture them celebrating much. Rather, I imagine them weakly soaking each other with champagne before deciding to all go take a nap and postpone the celebration until they arrive back in New York.

Besides. Everyone knows the nightlife sucks in Boston anyway.

Boston sucks. Everyone in Boston (except for the COS and SC) sucks. All the Bosox fans suck. Stupid Fenway Park sucks because it always runs out of hotdogs around the sixth inning. All the stupid Boston players with their stupid ugly nappy hairstyles and narly facial hair suck. I despise you all. AND I'm not getting any sleep because of it.

***

FOLLOW-UP . . .

Errr ... the heat works.
With a vengeance.

Dang, it's hot in here.