Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight saw two unpleasant events unfold. First, the Red Sox beat the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, which sadly was not entirely unexpected. The next... there was a meet and greet for the losers running for president of Red Sox Nation. My shadow candidacy was not acknowledged, even though I am a much better candidate than any of the tools who showed up tonight.

I hate to be the one to break this story, but the whole event is a farce. Hazel Mae was the host of the event, and she's one of the candidates. Can you imagine the furor if Mitt Romney hosted a forum for the candidates running for President during the three year ordeal that is the campaign for the Oval office? We all know he couldn't under the law stipulating equal time for each candidate, and we all know that this campaign for president of Red Sox Nation is a lark as opposed to a serious undertaking. But the illusion of propriety would be nice.

Of course, none of this really matters, as this election is already over. No matter who gets the most votes, the Remdawg will be inaugurated. It's not outside the realm of probability that he could win this thing anyway, what with the people being mesmerized by his unique charm, which calls to mind some sort of hideous cross between Lennie Small and George Milton from Of Mice and Men.

With the increasingly disturbing rhetoric coming from the booth during NESN telecasts, I get the sense that Remy is preparing to step in and put an end to this farce saying that he has to become the Remdicator for the good of the Nation. He was complaining the other day that these candidates have their forum while he's on the road with the team. He keeps bringing up his own laundry list of what the new president of Red Sox Nation should do. And I get the feeling that no one among them, not even a man of Peter Gammons' eminence could do any of the duties of RSN president anywhere near as well as Remy, just ask him.

I have a big problem with this. Not just because I don't like Remy, I prefer him to the arrogant sycophant, Bill Simmons, and some of the other celebrity candidates. I would like to see RSN elect a loser like Rob Crawford whose smash hit I'm a Member of Red Sox Nation could very well make him the biggest tool of all time. I mean really, just because he likes the Sox and you like the Sox doesn't mean you won't regret the hell out of blaring the song when the novelty fades. I never thought I'd say this, but he makes Terry Cashman's song about the Cardinals sound like Tchaikovsky. Rob Crawford could probably do more damage to the image of Red Sox Nation across the country than I could, and that's one of my chief hobbies.

Then there's Dennis Drinkwater. Not being a fan of WEEI and the damn Whiner Line, I'd never heard of him until a friend did a Google search to see who the tool behind home plate during every home game was. Obviously he deserves to be president of RSN. I would be interested to know how many votes he gets and where the votes come from. It would be quite a laugh if he got fewer votes than he has employees.

Of course, as I've mentioned, I don't trust this process. Who is responsible for vote counting? If they're going to conduct this farce, then they owe it to us who must suffer through it to do it with a tiny bit of decorum. They ought to have an impartial outside arbitrator count up the votes so that we all know that this giant waste of time was a professionally conducted giant waste of time. After all, we don't want any situation wherein the newly inaugurated president of Red Sox Nation could suffer from a perceived lack of mandate.

Anyway, tonight, I eased the pain of being ignored in the candidates' forum by going to see Superbad. It was shockingly funny. I expected some lowbrow humor, and I wasn't disappointed. There isn't much in this world funnier than seeing a fat kid get a baseball bat whipped off his back while he runs away from the police and an angry old man. But I have come to expect long stretches where the lowbrow humor gets old and there isn't much for the movie to go on (like Talladega Nights, or Borat, or Dodge Ball), but Superbad didn't have any low points. I highly recommend it.

Today started off with two unpleasant surprises. First, I opened the Globe to the Sports section and almost choked on my damn cereal. The Boston Celtics are trying to lure Reggie Miller out of retirement. I understand that the youth movement of the last two seasons has left a bad taste in the region's collective mouth. But skewing ancient isn't the right answer.

In Pulp Fiction, Marsellus Wallace reminds Butch the boxer that people who think they age like wine are gravely mistaken. Unless, of course, by that those people mean that they spoil and turn to vinegar. Reggie Miller is looking much more like vinegar than Dom Perignon at this point. And throwing him out in a crunch time lineup with 2 other defensive liabilities (it's kind of hard to be a defensive stopper at that age) and Rajon Rondo doesn't seem like a nice thing to do to Kevin Garnett.

I know the plan is not to have Miller playing 35-40 minutes a night, but something more like 15-20. Nevertheless, it's still like relying on that little donut spare tire to take you out on the interstate. He's 42. He's not playing 20 minutes a night for 82 games, let alone the playoff run we are told to expect from this bunch. That little spare tire will get you to the gas station in one piece, but when you put all your hopes into a two year window and a 42 year old jump shooter is the missing piece... well that's just depressing. Depressing enough to make me mix metaphors as though I were the CHB.

Speaking of every body's favorite newsman who bears an unnatural resemblance to Dr. Who, he made a funny today. That's how bad this panic move to lure Reggie Miller out of retirement is. Even the CHB can crack a joke about it and have said joke be moderately amusing. Shaughnessy asked: "Why not just see if Cooz wants to lace 'em up one more time?" That's not half-bad. Hell, for the CHB that's pure comic gold. And that was the second unpleasant surprise of the morning.

My final unpleasant surprise came this evening watching the first preseason game on FOX. Troy Aikman cautioned fans not to expect DeMarcus Ware to put up numbers reminescent of Shawne Merriman's 17 sacks from last year under new coach (and former Charger defensive coordinator) Wade Phillips. There I was anticipating that exact type of performance. And even if Ware should get 17 sacks, they shouldn't be measured against Merriman's uncanny performance from last year as Ware will (I hope) play all 16 games this year. And before I move on, let's not forget the little problem of Merriman's 4 game suspension for the use of illicit performance enhancing drugs. But good work on the call, Troy.

And before I sign off, as tomorrow is Friday, and I've really been trying not to post after I've had a few, I've been doing some thinking about my proposed candidacy for the Presidency of Red Sox Nation. I think part of my problem in the initial phase of my campaign has been a lack of statements to clarify my positions on issues which must be addressed.

I propose that a more dignified song be found to celebrate (or in my case, grieve) should the Red Sox continue their disgusting habit of winning home games. "Love that Dirty Water" is beat (from an aesthetic standpoint), it glorifies a shameful lack of respect for our regional waterways on the part of our ancestors and it is no longer the case. In fact, Boston Harbor is now so clean that the EPA and state officials have finally gotten around to banning boats from dumping sewage within three miles of the Harbor.

Look at the Red Sox chief rival. The Yankees feature "New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra. Granted Frank Sinatra doesn't enjoy the stellar reputation among music lovers that has made the Standells the darling of the nation these many years, but he's still somewhat recognizable. Good grief. Sinatra has a song book; the Standells have spark notes. Surely there must be some artist with some song that has roots in the community and just a bit more dignity. I'm not looking for Rachmaninoff, here. Just something that isn't a one hit wonder with a lame hook that has somehow dug into the collective psyche of morons in New England like a tick.

I would also do away with the 8th inning tradition of singing along to Sweet Caroline, which is another beat song. If you really want to listen to it, I have it on Coco Crisp's authority that New England's official Sweet Caroline Station is WROR (105.7 for those of you wishing to tune in at home). Singing along to Sweet Caroline, especially with the slight adaptions inserted by Red Sox fans at Fenway is no better than bringing a glove to the game if you're a grown man or doing the damn wave.

I am also not a huge fan of the pink shirts. I realize that a small portion of the proceeds goes to benefit breast cancer research. But let me let you in on a little secret... you can donate money to breast cancer research without buying a Red Sox shirt. I know this. I know people who do it. You could even donate the money you spent on the shirt or the hat or whatever other pink souvenir you purchased directly to the good people doing the cancer research. Granted you wouldn't have the pink souvenir, but maybe the satisfaction of donating all of your money to cancer research and none of your money to the "John Henry's getting divorced, again" fund could keep you warm at night.

I really don't have much to say about tonight's performance. I am not as impressed with Matsuzaka's epic pitching performance as I anticipate Red Sox Nation is at the moment. As I said last night, I am not sold on these Cleveland Indians. To put it bluntly, if I had to pitch to Grady Sizemore or Travis Hafner with the bases loaded and nobody out in the last inning of a game I absolutely had to win, let's just say I wouldn't be quaking in my cleats. Sure they put up good stats, but they don't strike fear into opponent's hearts.

Two years ago, the Indians entered the last week of the season with a shot at catching the Chicago White Sox or maybe the wildcard. And they choked. They fell apart as though it were their sole purpose in life. Signs point to that same outcome for them this season. This looks like the beginning of the end for them.

I finally caught an episode of The Bronx is Burning. I thought it was pretty good. I'm not sure I buy Oliver Platt as Steinbrenner, but other than that I thought it was well cast and well written. And like most of the things I see in the course of a day, it got me thinking about other things.

For instance, if they made a series like that about a Red Sox team from that general era, would it be subtitled: Please put Jim Rice in the Hall of Fame, he had two really good years? Or How I triumphed over an IQ well below my uniform number and became a regional icon because I was mildly developmentally disabled by Bill Lee? Or You guys do realize I played for 20 years after that home run in the 1975 World Series, right by Carlton Fisk? Of course they wouldn't make a series like that about those Red Sox teams because no one would watch it, but a nation can dream, can't it?

Another thing that occurred to me is that Reggie Jackson was a lot like Manny Ramirez back in the day. If only Reggie didn't talk to the press, he might have been Reggie being Reggie long before Manny started being Manny. I also noticed that one of the executive producers of the show is named Joe Davola. Could that be the same guy that inspired the Crazy Joe Davola character from Seinfeld?

This is something that needs further investigation by some enterprising soul more willing to do the research than I am tonight. Because if this Joe Davola is the Crazy Joe Davola from Seinfeld, then there must have been a deal in real life that was kiboshed as the fictitious deal was which triggered Davola's hostility to Jerry and Kramer. I can't help but wonder what that deal could have been. Of course, I also need to get out more, but what can you do?

Finally, I thought it was awfully sporting of Bob Ryan to warn us about the danger of an NBA official fixing games three days after the story broke. I can understand that he wasn't due to write a column between the day it broke and the one that appeared in today's paper. I also think it would have been better not to call said piece a warning. As far as I know, you warn somebody before an event occurs, not after. Then again, what do I know? I'm not in the Max Mercy Hall of Fame.

Oh, and I think I see a way clear for me to be nominated for President of Red Sox Nation. I took a quick look at the celebrity nominations page, and I think I might qualify. Excerpts from my blog have appeared in Worcester Magazine and several times in BostonNOW. That might not be a hell of a lot on which to hang my hat and I'm not bragging about it, but at least I've heard of me. And that's more than I can say for Rob Crawford, Dennis Drinkwater and Rick Swanson.

Even though every moron and his brother has seen fit to weigh in on the NBA officiating scandal, I still want to put in my two cents. There are aspects of this story that surprised the hell out of just about every American fan. It sort of reminded me of the famous scene from Casablanca where Claude Rains as Captain Renault (the prefect of police) shuts down Rick's under orders from the Germans. The pretext he used is that there was illicit gambling going on in the bar. And as he is claiming to be shocked at that fact, the croupier walks up to him and hands him his winnings.

As a nation of sports fans, we have exhibited the same basic reaction as Captain Renault. We have the nerve to be shocked by this story when we ought to come out and admit that we're really surprised that it has taken this long for an official in one of our major sports to be implicated in a mess like this, or we would be if we weren't so monumentally naive. Officials don't make a lot of money and they have a pretty thankless job. I'm surprised only one of them has allegedly been fixing games.

Another thing that surprised me was Mark Cuban's response to this situation. I would have bet money that he'd have come out in his blog whining about the number of Mavs games Ted Donaghy reffed which featured questionable or controversial calls. Perhaps I was blinded by my hatred. To his credit, the Benefactor came out with a shockingly moderate response and provided a vote of confidence for the league office. I don't agree with him, but I found it to be a not entirely unpleasant surprise.

I don't want us to lose sight of the real victim here. Poor Bill Simmons is now dangerously close to experiencing an identity crisis of epic proportions. For 6 years now, he has managed to walk the fine line between being a wholly owned subsidiary of David Stern and daring to come out of the Commissioner's pocket once in a great while to criticize the league. Now he might have to pick a side, and it might hurt him a little bit.

When I discuss basketball in this space, I think I have made it explicit that I am not impressed with David Stern. He got to where he is today by stabbing his boss in the back. The NBA is falling down around his ears, and the most proactive solution he could come up with is a player dress code. But people claim he's the best commissioner in professional sports today?

The NFL gets better and stronger with each passing year. Their players get involved in ugly off-field incidents and the league comes down with a new player conduct policy. I'm still not a fan of it, but it's a genuine response. Pro basketball players fire into the air outside the strippie, enter the stands to accost and/or assault paying customers and the ratings decline year in and year out, but they have a fancy dress code.

Am I missing something here? Do I need to start smoking dope? How does any sane person look at that and think David Stern is the best commissioner in sports today? So what if the NBA runs a tighter ship than hockey or baseball? Is the constant struggle to attain mediocrity now what a person ought to aspire to?

Here's a thought: maybe David Stern should have been wondering whether one of his officials might have had a gambling problem. Maybe the Commish should have considered the possibility that an official with an alleged gambling problem might possibly come under the thumb of organized crime figures. And maybe one of his officials with an alleged gambling problem and alleged ties to alleged organized crime figures might allegedly take a hand in altering the outcome of games in which he was officiating.

Unless one can solve that problem with a new dress code, Stern could be in a little bit of trouble on this one. I think he might want to put the World's #1 Sports Commissioner mug on the back shelf for a little while. Before I leave this topic, I want to ask a rhetorical question. Every year the NBA playoffs seem to get worse from a fan standpoint. Is it a coincidence that the NBA championship trophy is the Larry O'Brien trophy and said O'Brien is the boss who was stabbed in the back by David Stern?

In other news, Jon Lester was impressive in his debut. And I don't really care. Don't get me wrong, it's awesome that his cancer is in remission. It's just that I wish him good health but professional failure. Also, it doesn't help that I hate the Indians. I had a hard time summoning up the energy to root for them tonight.

Finally, while my people seem to have hit a roadblock in advancing my candidacy for President of Red Sox Nation, it won't stop me from ripping Bill Simmons again tonight. I forgot to mention last week when I linked to his podcast addressing his flap with the Remdawg, Bill Simmons managed to make himself the dean of the Max Mercy Hall of Fame.

Simmons said that he wasn't going to feud with Jerry Remy because he didn't feud with second basemen with a lifetime OPS of less than .660. Which is a pretty damning insult coming from Bill Simmons. Out of curiosity, I went to Baseball Reference to set up one of their statistical comparisons to see what the Sports Guy's lifetime OPS was. And the damnedest thing happened. The comparison engine didn't work. It took me a while to figure out why. Then I realized Simmons never played the game.

If you have read any of my previous posts, you probably know that I live in a very small world. It's basically a cocoon of bitterness and misanthropy. And it takes very little to get that bitterness and misanthropy turned in a given direction. Tonight we have several things that are currently bothering me, and since every day could be Festivus in Sedition in Red Sox Nation Land, it's time for some grievances to be aired.

First, the Scion Sheeple ad campaign is really bothering me.
There are so many problems with them I don't know where to begin. I don't know if the creators of the ads were informed of a salient fact about the Scion line of automobiles. These cars are built in a factory on an assembly line just like any other automobile. Purchasing one does not make you unique, it just makes you a d-bag.

While it is true that Scions are designed to be customized to each driver's order, it is also true that you customize your vehicle with components that are also mass produced. As unique as you may think your Scion is, there are probably thousands just like it all over this great land of ours. And the person who buys and customizes the Scion to suit his/her taste is perhaps a bigger sheep than a person like me who is inclined to purchase a car off a lot because the Scion is being marketed more aggressively to nitwits my age (27) and younger than typical cars.

And if you customize your Scion with parts and accessories that aren't factory approved, you void your warranty just as you would with any other car. So Toyota has you coming and going, selling you a car you can customize only within their parameters on the grounds that they are catering to your taste. It seems to me that car companies already do that with the options packages that can be purchased on various production models. Too bad they didn't think to jazz up their ad campaigns with animated "badasses".

I was stuck on the road coming into Cleveland Circle from Route 9 last night behind a Scion who let an MBTA bus enter the stream of traffic. Can you imagine that? Letting the damn bus go? A vehicle that is slow and makes frequent stops? But I'm a sheep for not purchasing the vehicle for Generation Y. What a world.

Another thing that is bothering me is the commercial for the restless leg syndrome medication. Those ads are usually good for a laugh when the voice over actor reads the list of side effects. This was no exception. Some of the side effects include drowsiness while driving and increased sex urges, which seemed fairly incompatible, but then I've never taken any prescription medicines to speak of so I don't know. But the one that really got me laughing was an increased propensity for gambling. I'd never seen anything like that.

But then I got to thinking, is the FDA asleep at the switch? How is it a good idea to let people who can't fall asleep because they have the jimmy-legs (a nice Seinfeld reference, even if it is the episode where Sarah Silverman guest-starred) take pills that will put them to sleep while they're driving to Vegas or Atlantic City or the nearest Native American gaming facility to blow all their money on the slots and hookers so they can't afford to buy the damn restless leg medication for a second go round? Doesn't that seem like a horrible combination of public safety menace and modern tragedy? If some victim of restless leg syndrome with a lady of the evening riding shotgun runs me down in the Mohegan Sun parking lot next time I'm down there, rest assured that I will be pissed (provided, of course, that I survive).

Another thing that is bothering me is a gossip column calling Zach Braff a cad. First, it's not the Roaring 20s. That word left the vernacular not long after Woodrow Wilson left the White House. What else did the thesaurus offer for that one? Bounder? Wolf? And I have to tell you that with a gun to my head and the demand that I provide a three letter adjective to describe Zach Braff, cad wouldn't be the first word that flashed through my mind.

I don't really care that the gossip industry is calling him names. I do care about people trying to revive words that were best left in the era of silent films. If people like me don't stand up for contemporary words, then next thing you know they'll be trying to revive mountebank and poltroon. It will be as though we were trapped in an endless loop of those cartoons where Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck threw down with each other, only without the sparkling wit.

Finally, the Jerry Remy vs. Bill Simmons feud is grinding my gears, to borrow a phrase from Peter Griffin (I linked the deadspin version because the comments are pretty damn funny). While any kind of civil unrest in Red Sox Nation should theoretically make me smile, it bothers me because I didn't start it. It kind of makes me feel like Butters as Professor Chaos from South Park. It also annoys me because I find myself agreeing with the Remdawg, and that is never a good thing.

It was somewhat amusing that Remy shredded Simmons' application for president of Red Sox Nation (not that I considered the Sports Guy a threat to my candidacy, since his wife keeps him confined to LA). It was also entertaining to hear some one crush Simmons for being a hipster dufus, and a sycophantic hipster dufus to boot. Even if it had to be the Remdawg.

And it must have hurt Bill somewhere deep down in his heart to have Remy rip him, since I can't remember Simmons do anything but fawn over the current broadcast tandem. It also must have hurt the Remdawg, who loves to be fawned over more than anything else in the world, except maybe that garish green shag carpet-covered tool they call Wally.

You can listen to Simmons' heart to heart with Mike Wilbon if you can stomach his response to the Remdawg. The only consolation in this sordid mess is that I'm pretty sure Gus Johnson can't broker the peace between Remy and Simmons the way he channeled Art Garfunkel and served as a bridge over the troubled waters between Simmons and Isiah Thomas.

Which brings me to another point I hadn't really intended to make tonight. But am I the only person in the free world not under the influence of Gus Johnson. He sucks as an announcer. So what if he has a high energy level? A giddy dbag is still a dbag.

If I seem a little more unpleasant than usual tonight, you'll have to bear with me. Believe it or not, I'm not too bothered by the tremendous performance by Kaison Gabbard tonight. So what if he allowed 3 hits and threw the team's second complete game of the season. It was the Royals, who aren't exactly the 1927 Yankees.

It's just that I had a rough day. I woke up with a massive hangover, a sunburn and a head cold. All of which serve me right for drinking in the sun when I had a cold, but I don't have to be happy about it. It's always good to be the only guy with a cold when it's 90 degrees and sunny. People look at me as though I had tuberculosis or something, as though I were Doc Holiday. Bad times.

I do have a tool of note segment for you. I don't know if you've heard about this chump, but an English tool (seems a bit redundant, no?) swam a kilometer at the North Pole in a speedo. Of course he made a spectacle of himself for completely altruistic reasons. He wanted to alert world leaders to the harsh realities of climate change. The fact that a bald 37 year old English explorer could only get on worldwide TV for some idiotic stunt like this or having several freezers full of human remains probably had nothing to do with it.

This guy seems like he's bucking for archtool status. In no particular order, here are some of his major malfunctions: he has a mind coach, his nickname is the Polar Bear, he's an explorer and he's a grandstanding jackass. If there were any justice in this world a real polar bear would have shown up and mauled him for calling himself (or allowing himself to be called, which is just as bad) the Polar Bear. Unless you're a gargantuan physical specimen like Paul Bunyan you have no business with a nickname like that. So what if he swims in polar climes. Call him the Penguin or the Seal if Batman fans object.

I still can't get over the fact that he has the minerals to call himself an explorer in the 21st century. What is he exploring? It's all been explored. I thumbed through the atlas I have at the house. I didn't see a lot of blank spaces on any of the maps. No terra incognita or hic sunt dracones areas. I have to say, if you're the 23,457th person to find the headwaters of the Nile, you're not an explorer, you're a tourist.

Global climate change is a serious problem, I don't want to give the impression that I don't believe in global warming. But for all the good that one loser in a speedo swimming a kilometer at the geographic North Pole is going to do, he might as well have started a tire fire. After all, I might have missed the story, but I don't think President Bush and the 2/3 majority of the US Senate came storming in to work this morning to get the Kyoto Protocol back on the table and ratify the hell out of it. Somehow, I don't think Dick Cheney's staff had to wrestle the VP to the ground to stop him from divesting his shares in Haliburton and other energy conglomerates.

Maybe it's just me, and I'm cynical and mean and wrong on this thing, but what was the eco-footprint of this tool's mission to swim in the North Pole? Did he and his posse travel up there in a tall ship, sailing as though it were the 1840s? Or did they sail up there in a big, smelly, messy diesel powered behemoth belching carbons into the atmosphere to prove a point about global warming? If that is the case, this guy is definitely an archtool. Other, lesser tools should have to kiss this guy's ring when they meet him.

In other unrelated matters, the guy I go to for my Red Sox info tells me that I can't even begin to mount a candidacy for President of Red Sox Nation unless I see at least one game at Fenway this season. I am always willing to go some place where I can sit outside and drink beer and eat unhealthy food. Even if that means sitting amongst 36,000 people who would be very unhappy with me if they knew that I am the author of Sedition in Red Sox Nation. Can you imagine how many pieces of pizza would be hurled in my direction each time I turned my back?

But my source offered me a ticket for a game in the not too distant future and I can't use it. I can't use it because another friend called me late Thursday night while I was in Connecticut and drinking Bud Lights to invite me to a backyard party well north of the Charles River. And me being the nice guy that I am, I turned the ticket down. I wish I weren't such a good person.

And in even more unrelated matters, I was shocked recently to see that Lindsey Lohan is going around recommending The Prince by Machiavelli. It's even more surprising now that the news is coming out that she is having all kind and manner of trouble over some nude pictures that were apparently stolen from some ex-boyfriend's computer. Not being a big fan of the Italian Renaissance, I don't keep a copy of The Prince on my bedside table, but I imagine that Machiavelli would not be blackmailed by some tools running a celebrity gossip website. I think old Niccolo would be down there kicking some ass and clunking heads together as though he were Moe from the Three Stooges. Or at the very least hatching underhanded schemes to ruin people's lives.

Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight as I watched portions of the Red Sox game against the Blue Jays, I couldn't help but hear Jerry Remy talking about his status as lame-duck president of Red Sox Nation. Apparently, there is an election which will be held to fill that void. And what would an election be without a dissenting voice?

I say some concerned citizen of Red Sox Nation should nominate me. I can't nominate myself because that's just pathetic. But I could elevate the discourse in this election. I could be like Lyndon LaRouche, but sane. Or Ross Perot, but taller, bigger and with proportionately sized ears. I could bring a lot to the table, trust me. Hell, I've only horrifically insulted one of the New England states, Cambridge and Brookline in the last week.

The only drawback I see is that I'm not currently a citizen of Red Sox Nation, but I have some clever people working with me who can figure out a way for me to be a citizen of RSN without divulging my secret identity. I do think that with a concerted effort from a grass-roots movement, I could get on the ballot without being a citizen. After all, Red Sox Nation is more a brutal tyranny than a democracy.