Dear You Bronx Bastards,
You know I had made peace with this season. I really had. I had accepted that the Sox were done, and I had moved on to the next part of the season: the part where I stop all cheering and just go full throttle on the hate. That 10% of the time I spend actually being positive and rooting for the team? Gonzo. More fuel to fire up the hate train, nonstop express trip to October.
It’s honestly kinda fun. It’s like a fantasy league. Every year I get to pick some players, managers, and teams that I get to root against. The Cardinals are my keeper team. They’re in the lineup every year. Keep calling yourselves “the best fans in the country” as your football team leaves for LA you giant collective of asshats. The rest of the roster fills out as follows: David Price (Hall of Fame tool), Joe Maddon (for spawning David Price #unforgivable), David Price again (Seriously, I hate this guy), Buck Showalter (the only manager almost as overrated as Maddon) and the Toronto Blue Jays round out the hate squad.
So at this point you guys are probably thinking “Hey dipsh!t, this article is called ‘An Open Letter to the New York Yankees’, where the hell are we in this?”. Well I’ll tell you where you come in you impatient little dinguses.
Look, I take a lot of pride in my hate. My hate makes me happy. You can call it moronic or oxymoronic or sociopathic or whatever, but it’s true. And I’ve invested the vast majority of this season’s hate index towards the Toronto Blue Jays. I think they’re wildly overrated, and that they’re gonna get their doors blown off as soon as they run into any team with a good pitching staff. For God’s sake I bet my reputation – and about $30 worth of ugly Blue Jays hat (The logo with “T” and Blue Jay cartoon, you know the one… oh wait you don’t because it was so bad that they stopped using it in 2004 after only one season) – that Toronto wouldn’t win a single playoff game. But of course, as always, you assholes just had to go and f*ck up my sh!t.
Almost all of my confidence here was contingent on you winning the division. All you had to do was not f*ck it up, and the Jays would get bageled by Dallas Keuchel/Scott Kazmir or Garrett Richards/Andrew Heaney in the Wildcard game. But nooooooooo. It can’t be that easy for me, because you guys had to go and vomit all over yourselves like Denise, that bulimic girl from high school with the terrible aim.
On August 1st you were in first place in the AL East, the Jays were 6 games back, and were fourth in the AL Wildcard race. Now, the Jays are only half a game out of first place and up 2.0 games on the second wildcard team, and it’s almost entirely because you bums voided your bowels in a three game series against the Blue Jays, in which you were figuratively (and maybe literally) emasculated. By the end of the month, you guys will probably have lost the division lead, and maybe even your playoff spot to the Orioles.
And all I can say is: Why? Why you do this? Y u do dis 2 meh? I mean seriously guys, one time for me. This is only the second time in my twenty-plus years of life I’ve ever wanted you to win. The only other time was 2011 in game 162 against the Rays when you were up 7-0 through 7 innings and you somehow managed to f*ck that one up too. You’ve played great all season long, but as soon as I put even the most infinitesimal modicum of support behind you, you immediately turn around and sh!t your spines out the back of your pinstripe pants.
Even the locals are turning against your sham of a team now. My bestest friend on the internet Lisa Swan over at Scrubway Squawkers is so miffed by you baboons that she’s been forced to write about how much the music at your ballpark sucks. As a man who is well versed in that art of the hate-filled rant, I can say factually that if you’ve been reduced to spitting fire about the jingles in between innings, you are so ripsh!t about your team that literally anything can set you off into a pants-pooping fury.
In the end, all I ask is that if you’re going to blow this for me, you better go full blownsies. Don’t make this a long drawn out process, either cut the sh!t and get back on the wagon, or plummet through the crust of the earth at terminal velocity like Felix Baumgartner without a parachute. So to conclude this poorly constructed letter, I’d like to wish you all one final wholehearted f**********************************************ck you.
The Ghost of George Steinbrenner