Slothrop: The Ass-Muncher has single handedly cursed the Red Sox again, and Slothrop wouldn't be surprised if they don't win again for another century. And so but there Slothy was, watching the game in solitude, not saying a thing in full understanding and harmony with the laws of the baseball universe, the scoreboard showing promise of life and refracting carefully each drop of sweat from Youkilis's pate, when all of a sudden an imaginary team starts winning. How is this possible? Well, lookee here, turns out the Muncher was prognosticating all kinds of victories, making comparisons to FUCKING GREEK TRAGEDIES WHERE EVERYFUCKINGLASTFUCKINGTHINGTHATCOULDGOWRONGDOES!!! and then is surprised that the Gods stuffed a flaming arrow with roach poison in the eyes of every last Red Sox hitter not named Pedro(ia). And then, get this, after ensuring a world series between the Tampa Bay Rays and the Philadelphia Phillies (which is a close approximation to watching a world series between Fred Flinstone and Barney Rubble), he wants his name back on the blog? If Slothrop ever finds a way to put an electric fence around our benign blog beset by cosmic cretins, one that zaps the Ass-Muncher every time he types as much as an offending comma, he'll do it. And so now begin five months of a cold, barren winter in a wasteland filled with roaming devil donkeys. Slothrop shivers in terror and frigid loneliness.
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