Bad Blood

(photo from Boston.com)

The following IM conversation between Amy* and myself took place approximately seven seconds before Papi went deep:

Amy: How you gonna boo David Ortiz?
Me: Tizzle gonna make y'all pay. He's gonna kick your asses, is what.
Papi's Bat: BOOM, bitches!

Let it never be said us girls don't know our players.

Seriously, you guys, why do we have bad blood with Tampa Bay? Does this go back to the Pedro beanball wars and the D-Rays pitchers always plunking Daubach in his substantial heiny? Can we let it go? Otherwise, Trot Nixon is going to kill someone with his steely, steely eyes of doom. As Blaine Neal's purpose has now been clarified as "Trot Holder Backer," we're in for some serious stuff if "a certain person" keeps poking Trotter in the eye. Also, don't throw at Ortiz. Papi "Don't play that."

No one is more upset than me about the way the first two games turned out, okay? I mean, I'm subjected to the continuation of the Red Sox Catcher Blood Feud with my brother on Friday night and I took an unholy amount of flack when Dougie gets lifted for Tek who then proceeds to ground into an inning-ending double play. "I'm sorry, is that Steve Yzerman batting? Oh, right, I forgot, this isn't hockey. Hard to tell with that fucking 'C!'"

And don't even get me started on the amount of shit I had to listen to when Embree's first pitch was deposited in the outfield grandstands. "Well Tek obviously called for that pitch. Nice job, Captain."

However, the evening did lead to this little wager. You're all witnesses:

Kev: Dougie's gonna hit an inside the parker.
Me: Doug Mirabelli?
Kev: Yeah, he's gonna hit a round tripper. You watch.
Me: Doug Mirabelli, our backup catcher, he of the parachute-trailing run is going to hit an inside the park home run?
Kev: Damn straight.
Me: Here's what: Dougie hits an inside the parker and I'll buy you a case of beer.
Kev: What about a triple?
Me: Twelve-pack.
Kev: Double?
Me: Six pack but he's totally hitting a double sometime this year.
Kev: Inside the parker. It's happening.

My dad pipes up from the depths of the couch: If Doug Mirabelli hits an inside the park homerun, I'll eat my shirt.

Kev: Hope you like cotton.

So there it is, the sibling wager. Technically, I think it was only supposed to extend to Friday's game but so tickled am I at the prospects of seeing Dougie truck around the bases, huffing and puffing and hauling that imaginary piano and at my dad slowly and methodically devouring his golf shirt that I'm willing to offer up the price of a case of beer to see both happen.

Saturday's game wasn't witnessed in person but rather on tape at 2am after many, many, way too many beers and a few inadvisable gin and tonics. This is Butchie's fault. Most days when I drink too much, it's Butchie's fault. Butchie, in addition to being my own personal cheerleader, er, Pip, is also a horrendously bad influence.

I allowed myself to be torn away from the Sox and the Big Schill on Saturday night to attend a bad prom party hosted by my godparents and populated by all manner of people in hideous "prom"ish attire. Amy's** dress was tangerine, lemon and fuchsia. Mine was black and irridescent and sparkly. A corset was worn, as were false eyelashes and some truly horrific purple and teal eyeshadow. I looked like I was repping the New Orleans Hornets. Or, alternatively, a drag queen. Which, and I'm just sayin', I've been to New Orleans, there ain't that much of a difference.

Anyway, ain't nothin' that says "anguish" like watching the Sox, no, watching Curt Schilling blow a 4-run lead to the effin' Devil Rays while wearing a sparkly prom dress, flip flops and dealing with the spins. Yesterday was a very, very long day.

Tonight it's the Fat Man vs. Bruce Chen, Part the Second. Let's see if we can stifle the Birds again.

Oh, and just so we're all clear, my mom is the greatest ever. I showed up at my parents' house on Friday night to find this waiting for me. Minus the "C." Let's all hear it for my mom.

And this. Flattering, ain't it? I feel it's my duty to inform you all that I don't normally have seven chins nor am I twelve months pregnant. I was, however, carrying most of my earthly possessions in the front pocket of my hoodie and was probably suffering from heat stroke and exhaustion. Also, distracted by the shiny.

EDIT: I was just reminded, there were pineapple chunks marinating in Vodka. That may also have added to the problem.

*There are two Amys. I know, this is getting confusing. This is Amy of Platooned. Or AmyintheSouth to many of you. We don't "know" each other per se. But we chat frequently, distract each other from work and serve as most excellent Pips for one another in all boy-related situations.

**This is Amy of Pasquinade who works, at present, 4 feet to my left. We have dubbed ourselves hetero life partners as we spend what is most likely an unhealthy amount of time together. This Amy witnesses, in person, most of my insanity and debauchery. She also sometimes spills beer on people. Just so we're all clear.