Bill's Sports Binge: Red Sux redux

And reduced, too, thanks to the Rays and James Shields.

On that note, I almost forgot who was playing the Rays this week until I went to the gym and saw all the greasy turds sporting the red B's on their ball-caps as they shout across the weight room to each other in that indecipherable dialect that makes me instinctively wonder what a bullet tastes like. That's right, ladies. I go to the gym. Wait, where you going? Lesbians?
Anyway, the Red Sux entered the Trop Tuesday night with a nine-game winning streak to play a Rays club that lately had had about as effective a home-field advantage as France in 1940. Tampa Bay shut them out, shut them up and ex-Ray Carl Crawford became the most expensive 0-3 hitter on the fake grass that night. And that tattoo on his neck looks like a sperm. Yeah I said it, Carl. Go count your cash, traitor.
Rays manager Joe Maddon was quoted as describing Crawford's homecoming welcome from the stands as "a smattering of negativity, which I thought was inappropriate."
Seriously, Joe? He left to play for the enemy for more money. Period. We used to love him, now we hate him. Which part befuddles you? Think when Johnny Damon left Boston for the Yankees and got a haircut he received a standing-O at Fenway because of all the fond memories they enjoyed together? Puh-lease. Shake Crawford's hand all you like, hippie. I'm still giving him the finger.


Speaking of fingers, LeBron James still has 10 ringless ones after the Heat went down to the? the, uh?'click, click'? one second. Here it is. The Dallas Mavericks in game six of the NBA Championship thingie. The Mavs went on to throw a party in the same hotel where James' Mom was arrested for slapping a valet. Classy! Remember when LeBron and the other two freaks were introduced to the good citizens of Miami in a pep rally that looked more like one of those sting operations police use to dupe fugitives into thinking they won a car or something? All I kept thinking to myself was, "I thought there were five people on the court in basketball." Well, that and "Where the hell is my remote?" Who says regular Joes like us can't identify with the likes of LeBron James? We've all been embarrassed my our mothers, breathed in too much chalk when we were younger, and we all have the same amount of basketball titles. Zing!


Our Tampa Bay Storm improved to 5-7 after beating the Pittsburgh Power 62-55 Saturday, and are still in contention for a wild card spot in the Arena Football playoffs. But the real story was last week when the Storm hosted a tryout for our very own USF where-is-he-now quarterback Matt Grothe. Grothe, as you all know, once considered skipping his senior year to enter the NFL draft (pause for belly laughs) and was recently released by the CFL's Toronto Argonauts? which I believe are pirate astronauts (so I didn't feel like looking it up). What I did look up was the current Storm roster, and while I did find a quarterback out of Belhaven named Zbydniewski, they passed on the hometown has-been. Yes, I'm bitter because I did a phone interview with Grothe on the radio a few years back and all I heard was chewing and smacking like he was eating (or blowing a teammate. Hey, that's what it sounded like!)

A few weeks ago I wrote a column about the elitist Tampa Bay transplant sub-human sub-culture who intermittently noise-pollute our city when New York or Boston teams blow into town with unsolicited and uninteresting jabs at us for basically being inbred hillbillies who know nothing of what it's like to be "real fans." Some douche named Dean emailed my personal Facebook page and couldn't have illustrated my point better if I'd paid him. He pulled out everything from the Civil War to the 2000 election and capped it off with, "At least WE don't abandon OUR teams when they suck." He lives in Tarpon Springs. I guess WE refers to the voices in his head and I'm not a real Tampa Bay fan unless I move away. I've said it before and I'll say it again. Attention Northeast transplants: We never asked what you think. We don't care what you think.

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