Rays win the series. It may take days to get the smell akin to a pile of dead wet rats along the Bayshore at low tide out of Tropicana Field. The assembley of obscene, misdirected, obnoxious, elitist, egotistical collective attitudes of Yankee fans with 727 area codes once again comes to an end. The arrogant mass of pale pudgy humanity bum-rushed the joint in another half-assed attempt to take the Trop hostage over the weekend and give us hicks an unsolicited ear-splitting lesson on how to be a "real fan" (while ironically living down the street), then left, losers of the series. You could almost hear the sound of a toilet flush.
This just in: If you are not a resident of New York, you can like the Yankees all you want for whatever personal front-running rationality you've come up with, but they're not "your team." And this is not up for discussion. It's the very reason why a generic scoreboard is labeled "Home" and "Visitors." If you are neither, then you have no identity. And I pity you.
GO RAYS! (or go Greyhound)
Swing and a miss. And a miss, and a miss, and a miss. Cheating slum-lord pretty-boy Alex Rodriguez hits a perfect 0-fer the weekend. Every at bat was met by ignorant Yankee fans with cameras and phones aimed at what could possibly have been the historic home run that would crack the 600 mark. Their disappointment was delicious. The 600 club still only has 6 members, four if you eliminate Barry Bonds and Sammy Sosa (as I have). Thank the sweet Lord. Had the tainted milestone been met in my beloved backyard, I would have vomited with monumental eye-rupturing, forehead-vein-pulsating, ab-crunching ferocity not felt since seeing Madonna in Playboy when I was in junior high. Those hairy pits haunt me to this day. Honestly Alex, how did you not contract anything after hitting that?
Are you ready? Well ready or not, break out the marshmallows, kids. Buccaneer camp is full swing.