Kuzul

From Palm Springs to City of Palms, Red Sox Nation has sought professional help for their stressful inability to handle the agony of defeat.

As for ownership, they have applied from the city of Boston for a license to offer mixed drinks at Fenway to help fans cope with the most expensive, losing team in Sox history.

See WHDH-TV – Board approves sale of mixed drinks at Fenway for details.

Hard-drinking Red Sox fans could start to flood counseling centers across America after watching the Sox play for three or four hours at the Fenway Saloon.

Many fans that wear pink hats may begin to see pink elephants as the nightcaps flow along the concession stands.

Can plain brown paper bags as head-wear be far behind for bleacher bums? Who cares if the Sox lose when you’re in Marguerita-ville?

At the new Fenway Bar and Grille, you can sit on barstools in the Monster seats while the pitching staff is grilled.

Many fans are still trying to buy tickets to Fenway Park to satisfy their desperate need to see good pitching. More are realizing that the fix may not be found at Friendly Fenway, but at least they can find a Sloe Gin Fizz while the Sox fizzle.

A couple of Cape Codders may be just what the bartender recommends to the couple that drove up from Barnstable on Old Cape Cod.

On the cocktail list is the cool and refreshing green Grasshopper, made from crème de menthe and some light cream.

Now your drink will color coordinate with the Green Wall.

Strung out Red Sox fans will demand that Theo Epstein needs to find a Man with a Golden Arm.

No, we do not mean another pitcher, but a cocktail wizard who can make a pitcher of martinis.

Red Sox fans are growing used to seeing the starter chased in the second inning. Now the chaser will arrive in the third inning.

As the pitching staff gets shellacked, fans will now be singing a few bars of “My Melancholy Baby” instead of “Sweet Caroline.”

Many long-time Sox addicts have been grateful for A Hatful of Rain recently. It may be a Long Day’s Journey into Night before genuine sobriety and victory emerge again for Red Sox Nation.

No one wants another Lost Weekend or even the Days of Wine and Roses. If Red Sox losses continue, what strange brew will become the choice of designated drivers?

Meanwhile, Red Sox Nation will have another round. When you’re in the cellar of the American League, there’s only one direction to go: Bottoms up, fans!

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To make life easier, let’s just say that Dice-K cost a clean $100 million. I mean, that extra $3,111,111.11 really isn’t anything to write home about anyway. I can easily make that much money in three, maybe four lifetimes.

With that absurd amount of Benjamin’s, I’d buy Roy Halladay. Halladay was signed through 2013 with a 3year/$60 million contract. I’d rather have spent my money on three years of Halladay instead of six years of Daisuke Matsuzaka.

With the remaining (approximately) $40 million, I’d have taken the Boston Red Sox, the entire AL East, the rest of the American League and their counterparts in the National League out to Sizzler for an all-you-can-eat steak dinner. And if anything is left over, maybe some Pink (read: crack) Berry afterward.

If anyone has too much to drink, Dice-K will be available as the designated driver to ferry people home free of charge. After all, he doesn’t really need the money now, does he?

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I am proud to announce that the Boston Red Sox have decided to open a brand new Institute for Advanced Science!

The venerable Daisuke Matsuzaka, who will surely become the most expensive physics professor in the history of the world, will be the first tenured faculty member. He will draw upon his vast knowledge in the area of streamlined, aerodynamic flight to raise a whole new generation of power-hitting, RBI-producing, pocket-protecting nerds.

You can still rest easy, however; this alternate career will not distract the man from his primary duty of raising the collective batting average of the rest of the league.

Okay, perhaps I am being a wee bit harsh, but the guy did manage to give up eight hits and seven earned runs in just two innings to the Tampa Bay Rays! This is a team that, going into the now-abbreviated three game series with the Red Sox at Fenway, had scored only 20 runs all season. In fact, if you remove the nine runs they scored in their only non-Sox victory, they only mustered 11 runs in eight games, and more than two runs in only two games.

In case I’m not painting the picture accurately, let me state this as clearly as I can: The Rays suck…

And yet the Red Sox, to their eternal credit, a testament to their unwavering resolve, were unwilling to be second best! They saw the Rays magical season of tragedy and horror and said, “we can do better than that!” And better they were, losing the two games they played in both spectacular and soul-crushing fashion before Boston fans began weeping so profusely that they flooded the field and forced a postponement of the final match.

This team is much too good at this…

Lester may have been the lone bright spot in the growing rubble of a rapidly crumbling season, building off his stellar outing against the Indians by throwing another seven quality innings. He allowed three earned runs and struck out another eight in a heart-breaking 3-2 loss on Tuesday night.

After the game, he demonstrated the tremendous class and character that can only be found in the spirit of a man of his caliber, when he told reporters, clad in only a towel the size of a face cloth and eating a salami sandwich the size of a basketball, that he “wonders if the Patriots need a backup quarterback.”

So, thanks to the deluge of tears, the Red Sox have two days off. Rumor has it that Terry Francona has already locked the clubhouse doors and refuses to let the players leave until they “think about what they’ve done!” Pedroia did throw a brief tantrum, but Franconca called him into his office and made him sit in the corner until he calmed down enough to take his daily nap.

When the Blue Jays come to town on Friday, all of Red Sox Nation will watch carefully as the team tries to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives and squeeze out a couple of wins. Otherwise, I suggest they go for broke and start actively trying to lose; running out singles to third base, pitching from shortstop, forgoing the center fielder, letting Papelbon close…

If they’re going to lose, they may as well make us laugh.

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Going to a game at Wrigley Field in Chicago is an experience that every passionate baseball fan should aspire to at least once in their lives. The baseball game itself is in many instances secondary to what’s going on throughout the ballpark.

While the beloved Chicago Cubs haven’t won a World Series championship since 1908, it doesn’t deter fans from making the trek to Wrigley Field and participating in the overall experience.

The Cubs have always done a terrific job in ensuring that its fans receive a great experience as well, and despite their lack of success on the field, Wrigley Field is still of the most unique arenas in all of professional sports in terms of atmosphere.

Oftentimes fans from across the world will plan trips to Wrigley during the summer. It is not uncommon to see travel buses from all areas of the country, loaded with fans looking to take in the Wrigley experience for the very first time.

Many articles have been written about the ivied walls, the rooftop views outside the ballpark, and the unbelievable food available at Wrigley, but unless it is experienced first-hand, it’s hard to get an idea of what the atmosphere is really like.

One particular videographer decided to conduct an interview with one “ardent” fan this past Opening Day at Wrigley, and no doubt he is ruing that decision.

The woman in question was a little bit more than he had bargained for. She obviously spoke about the experience at Wrigley, but she had clearly been “preparing” for her Opening Day experience at Wrigley Field for far longer than was necessary.

Check out this interview, and you will get an idea of exactly what we’re talking about.

By the way, if you’re at Wrigley Field, and you happen to have an extra ticket, you might want to reconsider approaching this particular woman.

For continuing coverage of Major League Baseball, follow Doug on Twitter @Sports_A_Holic.

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I have made a decision: The 2011 major league baseball season began on April 8th.

I don’t need to hear you tell me that I’m crazy, or stupid, or ugly, or a pervert; the voices in my head tell me that all the time (especially Paul; he’s such a jerk!) This is not about logic, this is about survival. And we all know that the most important thing any organism can do, after eating deep-dish pizza, of course, is to survive. Don’t argue with me, I didn’t make the rules.

I have some solid, scientific evidence to back up my claim, too:

1. It was revealed that the Red Sox were not given a coffee grinder in either Texas or Cleveland and have been living off only store-bought Red Bull for a week. Some could argue that this is in direct violation of the Geneva Convention, making both the Rangers and Indians guilty of war crimes. But above all, it most certainly nullifies the first six games.

2. The Red Sox were also only given a draft copy of the 2011 season that had an additional six preseason games listed, and were never mailed the updated copy. They clearly weren’t really trying against Texas or Cleveland, they were still tuning up! Therefore, the early season losses were the fault of the commissioner, and possible Jerry Remy, not the team.

3. Also, Cleveland sets its rivers on fire every few years, which offers them a clear unfair psychological advantage that the league should investigate immediately (send in the UN).

4. Texas doesn’t really exist.

Given the irrefutable proof listed above, combined with an eloquent, beautiful and spectacular 2-1 series massacre against the arch-rival New York Yankees over the weekend that was in no way only a mediocre performance, I can only conclude that this team is back in shape and ready to show what they are truly made of (meat).

Of course, there are still concerns. The Red Sox did get rather poor pitching performances out of both John Lackey and Clay Buchholz, both of which failed to get out of the fifth with even a shred of dignity. Also, the Sox offense managed to strand 32 base runners. They seemed to get a dozen hits every inning but somehow almost never scored a run, a feat only accomplished by a team with an intimate knowledge of physics and a desire to lose spectacularly.

But the signs of life were unmistakable. Pedroia racked up an astounding nine hits to raise his season average to .400 (is it too early to compare him to Ted Williams?) and David Ortiz had four hits (all while looking fabulous!) while Youkilis seemed to walk more times than he had legal plate appearances (I suspect evil was somehow involved). And the main event, Josh Beckett, pitched a stellar, lights-out performance on Sunday, throwing 11 innings of shutout baseball, allowing only -1 walks and amassing 29 strikeouts en-route to a two-win outing. He was so good that the President called him to congratulate him on his effort, but he hung up because he’s from Texas.

Also, Jason Varitek looked annoyingly comfortable at the plate, something he has no business doing, as I had him all but written off as a ludicrously expensive bench coach for the remainder of 2011.

Carl Crawford still sucks, though.

Up next, the Red Sox welcome the Tampa Bay Rays to Fenway. This is a team so ungodly awful that they managed to become the one shining beacon of hope during the Red Sox’ 0-6 season start, similar to the emotion of seeing a haggard homeless person just a few minutes after being dumped by your girlfriend. If the Sox can take at least two games in the series and face Toronto with a 4-8 record or better, then I’d say the team is back on track and ready to make some noise (with a vuvuzela).

Until our next meet-up, stock pile your nachos and get ready to ride out an assuredly pleasant stretch of Red Sox victories; the 2011 season has just began, and I can quite clearly recall the media being certain that this team would manage to win 100 games, the World Series and cure cancer. It should be a lot of fun to watch…

…Unless they start to suck again…

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Okay, now you can boo him.

And throw some dirt on the Rays season while you’re at it.

Manny Ramirez was one step ahead of the law Friday when he abruptly quit retired from baseball, which appeared ready to slap him with a second suspension. This slap was for 100 games, after he again violated the sport’s drug policy.

Manny, 38, bailed.

He shut it down faster than the federal government ever could.

Manny just contracted, so here we are.

So much for him being part of the marketing push for the new ballpark that was going to help keep the club in the area.

In the end, it was just Manny being dirty.

Again.

One thing’s for sure: He will not be wearing a Rays hat in Cooperstown.

Who am I kidding? Like there is a chance in hell he will find his way into the Hall of Fame without having first purchased a ticket.

The last time around, in Los Angeles, he was caught using a fertility drug.

Bet the Rays had twins when this news came down.

Scratch one cleanup hitter.

What a sordid episode.

What an embarrassment.

True, the optimist might say the Rays got the inevitable Manny headache out of the way early. Manny’s career here lasted about 119 minutes—okay, six games, really; five of which he played in, getting just one hit in 17 at-bats with his last plate appearance Wednesday afternoon.

Who will ever forget it? Manny’s last swing will go down as a pinch-hit fly out.

But it doesn’t help the perception, and maybe the reality, that this Rays season is already a goner. While Manny avoided suspension, the Rays will serve out the remaining 155 games of their 2011 sentence. They began the season 0-6 and the only question is who in this B-squad lineup is going to step up and not hit in Manny’s place. We haven’t even mentioned the grim prospect of Casey Kotchman bobblehead night.

But I digress.

Back to Manny being dirty.

As recently as two years ago, Ramirez would have been a no-brainer, with tape-measure Hall of Fame credentials.

Now he gets in a line that might never move, with Barry Bonds, Rafael Palmeiro, Mark McGwire, Roger Clemens and the rest. Manny will always be the guy who got nailed cheating not once, not twice, but three times. (Remember that 2003 list that A-Rod and Big Sloppy were found on?)

That, my friends, is what thou calls a “tainted legacy.”

“Obviously, it’s not going to help,” Rays manager Joe Maddon said, according to Hot Trends News.

Manuel Aristides Ramirez smashed 555 home runs and drove in 1,831 runs, but he was hardly ever in a place where things didn’t end badly, though the speed of his departure here was truly stunning.

When Maddon sat Ramirez for most of Wednesday’s game at Tropicana Field, and announced Manny would also miss Thursday’s game in Chicago to attend to a “family matter,” there were some raised eyebrows. After all, Manny played the part of the happy camper all spring training. He sold himself to a lot of people. There were no troubling signs as the season began, unless you count 1-for-17.

Then all of this hits, seemingly out of nowhere (please note the sarcasm).

What a shocker!

I mean who on earth would have ever thought this guy would have been so stupid to use, and get caught using, again?

Well you can’t see me right now, but I kind of look like this image you see to the right.

Perhaps even more embarrassingly, the Rays got caught giving him another chance.

They said up front there was always a risk. Damn right there was.

It’s hard to tell what real impact this will have on this season. I mean, the Rays were clearly capable of not scoring runs with Manny.

They didn’t have much invested in him ($2  million) and there was always a chance he would have nothing left, something I thought while watching him last season. Maybe the Rays should have gone after Vladimir Guerrero after all.

But they didn’t.

They rolled the dice on this ass-clown fully knowing that he had a long, sordid history of screwing over entire organizations.

So once MLB released a statement stating that the league notified Ramirez of an issue with the drug policy, something he is very familiar with, he abruptly decided to quit instead of facing a 100-game suspension, since this would have been his second positive test.

Basically, he took his ball and went home. It’s not really surprising with how the tail-end of Manny’s career went.

Manny pretty much quit with the Red Sox when he showed his displeasure with his contract situation by not running out ground balls and possibly bringing his game down to intentionally not produce, until he was traded to the Dodgers.

That whole mess of a situation, along with his suspensions, clearly shows Manny had no respect for the game of baseball. His latest move of quitting six games into the season is a joke, but one where no one should be surprised.

In the end, the game of baseball is a lot better off without Manny Ramirez.

Good freakin’ riddance.

This article is also featured on The Rantings and Ravings Of A (Formerly) Mad Mailman.

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Mad Magazine should feature Manny Ramirez on their covers. He’s one of the original Boston Red Sox Idiots. And, now we have confirmation he is crazy as a Looney Toon.

Imagine having been banned once for 50 games for using a forbidden substance, and then to use the proverbial putative something again.

Imagine being so stupid that you are caught once more with hormones, steroids or the creeping crud inside you.

The threat of a 100-game suspension and humiliation is a great motivator toward retirement.

The motto of Manny Being Manny rivals only the other imbecile’s mantra: ”What, me worry?”

Don’t worry, Manny. Be happy. Your career is in the garbage dump and your miscue is now beyond rescue. You just flushed 500 home runs down the poop chute.

Some people get ulcers, and others give them. If Manny is ulcerated, it is only along his medulla oblongata.

If using drugs and steroids will fry your brain, Manny may have fricasseed frontal lobes. He is clearly out to lunch.

He’s sniffed too much pine tar resin, raising the count higher than 3 and 2. He makes the other former Red Sox brainiac, Roger Clemens, look like a rocket scientist.

Enablers took him in at the Los Angeles Dodger Disneyworld, and he took them in, though it’s doubtful they realize it.   After all, Los Angeles created Manny-wood, a fantasy home where he could live out his delusions for a few more years.

Manny has always belonged in Mudville, where his slime-riddled career can be appreciated.

Now, the reality show we call life may be intruding too much. There will be no return to Boston, giving fans a chance for their much-needed catharsis on Monday.

If you were to ask Manny about Cooperstown, his legacy or fan respect, he would look at you blankly. These are words that he never can define and are outside the drug user lexicon.

Words in his vocabulary are limited to vanity, and the rest of his meager, but benighted diction belongs in a rather thick-skinned dictionary he and Barry Bonds have compiled.

The first word that neither has comprehended may well be “comeuppance.” Guilty parties often get it sooner or later.

After being hit with a proverbial ton of steroid slime-balls, Manny will slide under the bombardment that would assault the ego of a lesser maroon idiot.

The Mighty Manny has struck out, and we can only say good riddance.

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In case you have failed to notice, Alfonso Soriano spits more than any other human on the planet. Honestly, he’s like a stable llama on Mucinex–it’s disgusting. Watch for it, you’ll undoubtedly lose your appetite.

But for the first time in a long time, Alfonso Soriano is starting to spit his game in between the chalk lines at Wrigley rather than littering the dugout floor with his own saliva.

Through the first four games of the young season, our $136 million man has actually been relatively productive, particularly Monday afternoon in the matinee tilt against Arizona. Soriano had not one, but two timely hits in the span of a single game, which eclipses his total set for the entire month of April in 2010.

He has become, if nothing else, the most feared 7 hitter in the National League.

If you think that I’m sitting in Alf’s corner breezing him with one of those oriental hand fans, that’s simply not the case. I’ll admit, ‘the hop’ is stupid. He’s a horrible fielder, he’s prone to the strikeout, and he still speaks that incomprehensible Spanglish jibberish after 13 years in the MLB.

But, if we’ve learned anything about #12 during his career with the Cubs, it’s that the more he is relied upon, the more he lets you down. High expectations weigh him down like he’s doggy-paddling holding 50 lb. dumbbells.

Take, for example, 2006, Soriano’s last year with the Nationals. With their only aspiration for that season being to not be as poor of a franchise as the Washington Wizards, Soriano flourished. He hit .277, cranked 46 out of that supposed “pitcher’s ballpark” in D.C. and snagged 46 bases, all while mindlessly voicing his personal preference to play the infield.

Since that successful season in the nation’s capital, Soriano’s totals have dropped considerably every year and he hasn’t once stolen 20 bases as a member of the Cubs. He’s swiftly plummeted from prohibitive All-Star to yearly “fall guy”.

Do I think that paying your 7th hitter that you often replace late in games for defensive purposes $17 million is a good idea? Not necessarily, but I think that Soriano can certainly benefit from it.

Cub fans have become so disgruntled with bad contracts and underachieving free-agents on a yearly basis that voicing their displeasure with Soriano at this point has become a waste of breath.

On Monday, his two clutch hits, including his 2nd home run, propelled the Cubs back to the .500 mark. If he can continue to outproduce Skip Schumaker, the Cardinals’ 7th hitter and consummate league dork, the pressure should remain off Soriano’s slump-susceptible shoulders.

If not, this was all just me spitting into the wind.

Now I’m done. Rack me.

Frost

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Watching Chris Rock on David Letterman, I’m reminded of why most of his movies suck.

It’s because Chris Rock has no freedom in movies.

Watching him last night on Letterman riffing on how the Mets are so broke (Rock says,  “Some teams have Bat Day; we have bring a bat day.”) reminds me of how funny he can be when he’s given the room to work.

Plus, most movies have a hard time capturing Chris Rock in that whiny/angry state where he’s at his best.

However, the Mets are not really a laughing matter. Sure, we poke fun at them because they have giving out so many overpriced contracts that even I am currently working for one year for $18 million.

Of course the Ponzi scheme that Bernie Madoff pulled on so many is no laughing matter, unless it’s the Mets.

The Mets open themselves up for comedy because they are little brother to the Yankees, and no matter how much they try and outshine their big brother, they can’t.

It’s like if Brad Pitt had a brother Chadd Pitt (and he’d definitely spell it with two d’s) and Chadd decided his one goal in life was to outshine his brother as an actor, but his greatest achievement was directing community theater in Boise, Idaho where he wins a Spudd award (also with two d’s so how fitting) and ends up having a shake at the local Dairy Queen named after him.

Not a bad life, but just a pale comparison.

Those are the Mets, and to dig themselves out of the hole, they have to figure out how to get back in the black. Not easy to do when they are committed to high payrolls for years.

But with promotions like “Bring a Bat Day,” they can start closing the gap.

We know Chris Rock will be there. 

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As the dawn of the 2011 baseball season comes, one thing above all is certain: The 2011 Boston Red Sox are the greatest collection of baseball players ever to grace the game with their hallowed presence. Put this team against anyone, from any era, and they will stomp the snot out of them without even breaking a sweat. The 1927 Yankees? Don’t make me laugh! The 1998 Yankees? They had David Wells; need I say more? The 1932 Yankees…

Okay, enough with the Yankees. The point is, every newspaper, radio station, television analyst and homeless person has been telling us near nonstop just how undeniably, invariably and spectacularly awesome this team is.

I saw one such breakdown on a local sports network that claimed the Red Sox have a legitimate chance to sweep all major awards, win over 100 games, win the World Series, cure cancer and raise Papelbon from the dead. And I can’t think of a single reason to doubt their analysis.

Well, unless you count the three consecutive losses to start the year where they were outscored 26-11, Carl Crawford struck out five times and pitchers surrendered 11 home runs en route to a team ERA of 9.75 and a BA of .200…

But why would we worry about that? They were playing in Texas! If there is anything we can be more certain of other than the extreme talent possessed by Francona’s sexy, brooding squad of man-some is that Texas rarely obeys they laws of physics.

When a scientist tells a Texan that the Earth has gravity, a Texan will defiantly pull up his Wrangler’s, don a ferocious scowl and jump right off a bridge. And I think, as Americans, we should encourage this behavior.

The Sox have a much needed day off today before they head up to Cleveland, trying very hard not to touch anything on their trips to and from the ballpark. And I think the day off is a very good thing because it gives the Boston sports talk show hosts and diligent listeners a chance to completely flip out and threaten to kill everyone with fire.

I don’t believe I have ever seen a turnaround in faith this rapid and jarring since all the way back in the good ol’ days of 2010, which was the last time the Sox lost three or more in a row and made life not worth living anymore.

The only potential salvation lies in the arm of the Texan named Josh Beckett (assuming he hasn’t met any scientists recently), who spent most of 2010 trying to remember where his keys were. If it weren’t for the now infamous and successful transnational search, spearheaded by an international coalition of military forces, just before the winter meetings, Beckett might still be struggling.

We owe the outcome of this all-important game four to the men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice to discover that the keys were actually on his counter the whole time, under a piece of paper that “wasn’t supposed to be there.”

I will join you again on Friday to discuss the arrival of the Yankees (the 2011 version, so don’t panic) at Fenway Park for this first time this season and chronicle their inevitable and merciless slaughter, unless, of course, they happen to win.

Where are my nachos?

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