lupica lite
dear ian o'connor:
about new york fans. you can insinuate that we're arrogant, overbearing, any number of endearing terms you and the rest of your bitter, condescending tribe like to throw around, but one thing we are not is stupid.
Randy Johnson does not want to be here, never make any mistake about that. He has no love for the Yankees, Yankee tradition, Yankee Stadium, or anything else Yankee that counted for every ounce of Derek Jeter's singular backyard dream.
He does not embrace you, Yankee fans, or anything else about your pastime loyalties. Johnson comes to the Bronx as a fireballing mercenary with a heart as stone-cold as Roger Clemens'.
we have eyes. we are literate. some of us even grasp the ridiculous notion that not everyone on god's green earth grew up wanting to wear pinstripes, or that not everyone is as cuddly and yankeefied as our winsome cap'n, or that this beautiful game is clouded by greed. some of us are having a tremendously difficult time accepting this acquisition. some of us even have long memories, waaaay back even before the popular myth that the yankees hatched perfectly formed in 1998 and promptly went raping your mommas and pillaging your villages, and this newest yankee was the cause of some of our most crushing pain.
but we will get over it, sort of, much as we got over clemens (incredible, i know, but some of us saw through him, too). why? "i just want to win so bad. that's all i've ever wanted to do." because he's here now, and he's hungry, same as i am. it's a marriage of convenience. we don't need to love each other.
Now Cashman employs two brooding loners in Brown and Johnson, an honorary member of the same club in Mike Mussina
yes, this is the part where i tell you to go fuck yourself, you clueless cocksucking mick motherfucker, for making a wholly unnecessary assertion about a veteran member of his new team, which i'm sure is the reaction you were hoping for all along. congratulations.
love,
jennifer
about new york fans. you can insinuate that we're arrogant, overbearing, any number of endearing terms you and the rest of your bitter, condescending tribe like to throw around, but one thing we are not is stupid.
Randy Johnson does not want to be here, never make any mistake about that. He has no love for the Yankees, Yankee tradition, Yankee Stadium, or anything else Yankee that counted for every ounce of Derek Jeter's singular backyard dream.
He does not embrace you, Yankee fans, or anything else about your pastime loyalties. Johnson comes to the Bronx as a fireballing mercenary with a heart as stone-cold as Roger Clemens'.
we have eyes. we are literate. some of us even grasp the ridiculous notion that not everyone on god's green earth grew up wanting to wear pinstripes, or that not everyone is as cuddly and yankeefied as our winsome cap'n, or that this beautiful game is clouded by greed. some of us are having a tremendously difficult time accepting this acquisition. some of us even have long memories, waaaay back even before the popular myth that the yankees hatched perfectly formed in 1998 and promptly went raping your mommas and pillaging your villages, and this newest yankee was the cause of some of our most crushing pain.
but we will get over it, sort of, much as we got over clemens (incredible, i know, but some of us saw through him, too). why? "i just want to win so bad. that's all i've ever wanted to do." because he's here now, and he's hungry, same as i am. it's a marriage of convenience. we don't need to love each other.
Now Cashman employs two brooding loners in Brown and Johnson, an honorary member of the same club in Mike Mussina
yes, this is the part where i tell you to go fuck yourself, you clueless cocksucking mick motherfucker, for making a wholly unnecessary assertion about a veteran member of his new team, which i'm sure is the reaction you were hoping for all along. congratulations.
love,
jennifer