Nov 06 2009 08:50 PM
Re: Sorry!
A good number of the Yankee fans in the office were elsewhere today. My boss' boss gave me the smirking sorry. But THAT part was tolerable.
Fuck you, though, 6 train paradegoers, Westchester park-and-rides taking up two seats, braying on your iPhones in full voice during rush hour before the train went underground.
Fuck you, 6 train conductor, who made the same "All Mets fans need to get off" joke at four different stations before I hit midtown. Fuck you for being unable to contain your spite two days after your favorite team won a fucking World Series, and mostly, for being a fucking hack.
Fuck you, Jay-Z, and your fucking "Empire State," which touched the hard-bitten-city-kid in me when I first heard it, but now sounds to me like fucking Wagner with drug references. And get the fuck off the float, you goat-looking, friend-ditching asshole, and climb back into Beyonce's ass for the winter-- you didn't do shit.
Fuck you, George Steinbrenner. The fact that you're dying now doesn't ennoble you, and it doesn't lessen in the least the fact that you're an absolute dick of a boss and horrorshow of a human being.
Fuck you, Fox morning show-- especially Greg Kelly, who shames his father daily-- and ALL you local-news assholes for trumpeting this overdog tripe like an underdog story, making me feel embarrassed for you with your second-city shtick, and making me feel sympathy for Philadelphians. When you offer lame, insincere congratulations after the Mets finally win another championship in my lifetime, I will answer you with two middle fingers and a shit-eating grin.
Fuck your stupid hat, A-Rod. And fuck the ridiculous Jonathan-Albaledejo-Seagull self-help bullshit that's flooded my eyes and ears in the last two weeks, all in the service of explaining normal statistical variance. Fuck fucking Kate Hudson, and magic vagina theories.
Fuck your Bronx-raping monstrosity of a stadium. Fuck your big boondoggle that will never, ever pay for itself, and still gave you a granite-and-limestone train station with shitty food. Fuck your engraved t-bones and fake frieze. Fuck you for stealing parkland from children. Fuck you in the eyeholes with prison dicks, Lonn Trost.
Fuck Francesa, Kay, Waldman and, most of all, fuuuuuuuuuuuucking Sterling. Fuck MFY mouthpiece, Bob Sheppard, MFY mouthpiece. Fuck your proud tradition of far-than-your-share of drunks, wife-beaters and phonies. Fuck "True Yankees" and your false gods of clutch.
Most of all, fuck you, diehards-since-the-90s who can't name your team's backup infielders, but wear a different-colored MFY hat every day to work, started the "Let's Go Yankees" chant that bled through my iPod earbuds and frightened the children on my train, and think that your team affiliation makes you more important than us. You make the rest of America hate us, you make the rest of the world hate us, and you make native New Yorkers understand why. Go break a rib or four in your parade, you insufferable shits, then hitch a ride home from Leyritz.
November 2006
