Thursday, December 22, 2005
Oh Johnny, it's going to be awfully hard for you to get the stink of WHORISH GREED out of your hair. That stuff stays in worse than the special aromatic Mark Bellhorn smoke.
But you're going to have to cut your hair, aren't you? SHEARING THE LOCKS OF JESUSOSITY IN THE NAME OF COLD HARD (or, in this case, thin and crinkly) CASH. Your newly stripped scalp will shiver away from the New York air, which is rich in the way that Upton Sinclair thought of rich city air while writing The Jungle, and you will catch debilitating head cold after debilitating head cold until you yearn for the halcyon days when the headaches were low and soothing after another collision with your big green vertical friend.
What happened to integrity, Johnny? Why, it went skipping away, far away from your innermost core like a darkly sulky Nomar from the cold Boston benches, as soon as you gazed upon the bulbous fungal nose of Joe Torre and said to yourself, "Hey, I could look at that sometimes and not want to make a fried mushroom appetizer snack out of it." NO RANCH DIPPING SAUCE ALLOWED IN THE NEW YORK DUGOUT, JOHNNY, not since that one time with Giambi and his untimely attack of the munchies.
AND WHAT IS THE PRICETAG ON GIVING UP EVERYTHING THAT IS GOOD AND LOVING IN YOUR LIFE IN FAVOR OF OVERWHELMING WAVES OF EVIL AND THE STENCH OF SOUR OLD MAN THAT PERMEATES A GERIATRIC LOCKERROOM? $3 million, apparently, that being the difference per year between the last Red Sox offer and the accepted Yankee one.
But what is the pricetag on happiness, Johnny? THERE IS NO PRICETAG ON HAPPINESS. Just ask A-Rod about happiness while he stands in front of the clubhouse mirror with tears and mascara running down his cheeks in a dramatic Rocky Horror smear. But don't stand too close or look too sympathetic when you ask, unless you want to make him seek comfort and to experience the Super Secret Yankee Initiation, and Michelle won't like that, Johnny.
Actually, she might, I have no idea what works for Our Lady of the Frontal Flotation Devices and fear that if I did know, I would want to cry and remove my brain from my own cranium with nothing but a pair of salad tongs and a zesty serving of determination.
You will quickly learn that your beloved habit of being naked in the lockerroom as much as possible simply cannot fly here, both because the air conditioning is kept on full blast year-round in order to keep Bernie Williams (with whom you will have all kinds of fun, the both of you reminiscing about the good old days when you could throw a ball at least as far as halfway towards the infield from the wall) in as perfect a state of cryogenically frozen effectiveness as possible, and because the watery, wandering fisheyes of Randy Johnson will unnerve you in ways that Kevin Millar's jocular jock-grabbing never did.
What japes and hilarity you'll have in your new home! You will laugh about Idiots, and a roomful of pinstriped moneybags will stare at you blankly until one says, "Oh, no, we traded Womack." You will make a joke about your Queer Eye experience and Jeter will storm out of the room, angrily blinking back tears of manly jealousy that you have been so lucky as to feel the fashionable caress of Carson Kressley's rhinestone-laden hand and he, Derek fucking Jeter for god and Steinbrenner's sake, has not been given this blessing.
The boos whenever you play the Red Sox will be as a balm to your simple soul, especially when you see the small children, ages 7 and under, sobbing hysterically in the stands, their faces streaked with coaly ashes, their tiny child hands rending their #18 jerseys while they wail in mourning. Fangirls will fall to their knees and tear at their bleach-dry hair, calling out their inexpressible sadness unto the heavens, an entire drawerful of pink and white shirts useless now and totally not even good for winter layering because no, dude, you like, broke their hearts.
Have fun drawing straws for who gets to hit leadoff with Jeter, and by 'drawing straws' I mean of course the Yankee version, which involves what your cricket-playing counterparts would call 'competitive bumming', and there are no winners in that game.
Perhaps you can gain a couple hundred pounds so that a nice insulating layer of blubber can further cement your status as the next Rogers Clemens, only with a fifth of the talent, if that.
In short, Johnny Damon, YOU SUCK.