The douchiest franchise in all of sports is running some ridiculous contest to elect an honorary president of "Red Sox Nation." (And by the way, "Red Sox Nation" is a moronic, self-bestowed nickname. I think we should start calling ourselves "The YankHeads" or "The Yankees Traveling Circus" or "La Cosa Yankees" or "The Pinstriped Gang of Doom" or "The Four-Million Man March" or MAYBE WE SHOULD JUST CALL OURSELVES YANKEES FANS AND NOT GIVE OURSELVES A GAY-ASS, SELF-CONGRATULATORY NICKNAME. Either way.)
After much deliberation and soul-searching, I've decided to throw my hat in the ring. Forthwith, my application:
I humbly ask you, kind citizens of Red Sox Nation, to elect me, The Psycho Fan, as your president.
My qualifications are myriad and irreproachable:
1) I lived in Boston for six of the most miserable months of my life.
2) I have been to Fenway Park on several occasions.
3) I have watched numerous Red Sox games on television, and listened to more on the radio.
4) I know who all their current players are.
5) I can name all the great Red Sox who have ever played: Ted Williams when he had a head, Roger Clemens, Wade Boggs. See? That was easy.
As if you needed more reasons to give me your vote after seeing that resume, allow me to delineate how I will fulfill my duties if elected. I call this my Hundred Day Plan.
First order of business: Prettier ball girls. I know there's not much to choose from in the greater Boston area, but come on. You've gotta be able to do better than that.
Second order of business: NESN revamp. No more Remdawg. Sorry, guys, that accent is killing me. Also...again with the ugly.
Third order of business: Move Fenway Park to Brooklyn. I am pretty sure this can be done with enforced cables and helicopters. The Cyclones could use a new (old) ballpark, and frankly, the last hundred years or so of Red Sox history does little to convince me they can sustain a winning tradition long enough to deserve such a fine old stadium.
Fourth order of business: Re-name Red Sox Nation. New moniker: Douchefuckers Incorporated. As president, I will have absolute power and you will be unable to stop me.
Fifth order of business: Evict all racists from Douchefuckers Incorporated. Hey, wait...where's everybody going?
Sixth order of business: Make sure that no fans are killed by Big Dig debris collapses on the way to games. HA HA HA HA...you have all been punk'd. Everyone knows that could never be accomplished, even by a president as omnipotent as me.
Seventh order of business: Ensure that Manny is never allowed to be Manny again.
Eighth order of business: Use my position of influence and power to strong-arm Red Sox ownership to trade Curt Schilling to the Florida Marlins, where there is no media, and every word he utters will disappear into a vacuum devoid of light and sound.
Ninth order of business: Bury the rotting, rancid carcass of Douchefuckers Incorporated somewhere in The Combat Zone.
I know it sounds like a lot of work, but I am confident that together, Red Sox fans, we can accomplish anything. How do you like them apples?
I am counting on your vote. If nominated, I will run. If elected, I will serve.