Why did God give the Arabs oil and the Irish the potato?
He let the Irish pick first.
So many chowds in the stands when the Red Sox come to town, and what is the worst is that it appears that they were cloned - well, we know that the Vatican does not need advanced science when screwin around with a cousin or two will do almost the same thing: these inbred Irish Catholic pasties all look alike - I swear there are six looks for Boston fans and every little clique of them were mild variations on these six types.
Some are on the bandwagon and couldn't name you the Boston Centerfielder before Johnny Damon, some are the descendents of Kennedy pols who booed Ted Williams for not batting .450, but they all look alike, they all drink, they all aim poorly at the toilets and they all like a shitty team owned by Waspy overlord who doesn't believe that the Pope is Christ's representative on Earth.
He is the large drunk with a cauliflower nose who has learned a funny thing to yell out when a player is up. This season it is the low-decibel YOOOO when Kevin Youkillis is up. God forbid Marco Scutaro ever gets traded Bahstin. He is covered head to toe in the trendiest Red Sox jerseys and caps because he has one off those union jobs where you work three hours (@ $400 per hour) lifting three ton rocks and then take a forty-hour week coffee break, plus five months paid vacation.
That Girl You're Gonna Sleep With
She is chunky acne-scarred self-loathing girl with crazy eyes who is in love with Dustin Pedroia this season (it was Gabe Kapler in the glory days), but sleeps with a different guy she meets at the game every game. None of them remember her name and most refer to her either as "The broad who barfed right after we did it," or "Friggin false advertising padded bra chick who passed out before we did it."
If you cannot smell him, he is the fiftysomething with the full head of gray-hair, the fashion reject in Salvation Army Bland (too cheap to buy even knockoff team merchandise) living and dying on every pitch, too superstitious to shower and too Irish to drink beer that he himself might have to actually pay for.
No relation to someone who actually has a dollar to spare, he is the quiet, clean-cut pretend ivy leaguer in a fifteen-year old polo shirt who is just a showered, shaved version of a street urchin who didn't die of tuberculosis and found his slot in a corporation years ago. He is jovial when he is with a group of guys he can blend in with, but get him alone and ask about his accomplishments and you're likely to get a bruising for making him confront a life of abject failure.
He's the mouthy bitter guy whose Massachusetts accent is a cross between Ed Sullivan with a speech impediment and Gilbert Gottfried on crystal meth. He is either just short enough to give him a Napoleon complex or just tall enough to be a bully (and is a Patriots fan if he is 5'9-5'11), either way, someone is gonna get their head bashed in unless the game goes late and he has to leave because he of course is the only blue collar worker left in America and that is what made this country great and don't you forget it, but in reality he is so backward he actually lost one of those lifetime-guarantee union jobs and is now scabbing with any truck firm that will overlook his DUIs and restraining orders.
This old broad is fat and dumpy and probably has ten percent of her red locks intact, but even though they just make her hair look dirty, contrasting as they do with her shock-white locks, she protects them like the crown jewels. It is her night out and you're not gonna be ruining it with your rules and codes of conduct and expectations that a senior citizen act within thirty five years of her age. Why don't you buy a girl a drink ya cheapskate?
And by the way, I am a Gleason, and after sitting through a game with a stadium-full of my distant cousins lushing it up until their team upchucked it up, i can say this about my people - especially when they are rooting for such a corporate, Protestant team.