Game two is done. I hate the White Sox. HATE. I finished watching a movie tonight (the original Star Wars), just in time to see the Astros tie the game in the 9th. And to have my faith blown apart by the Imperial Storm Trooper that is Scott Posednik, blasting a laser shot out of the park for a game winning home run (forgive the mixed metaphors).
But the anger doesn't start with tonight. It goes back, a long time ago, in a ballpark far, far away.
Last year I witnessed the injustice of all injustice, the Red Sox winning the World Series. There are few more evil than the Red Sox, and their success was the downfall of noble tradition, in which good always triumphed. The villains won, and all innocence was destroyed. It was pain beyond description, a wound which can never heal.
And yet my afflictions grow worse. It seems that evil will not rest until the last remnants of good have been wiped from the face of this Earth. For the most vile of teams, the White Sox, their foul stench polluting the pure air of this fair land, appear solidly on path for their own title. The White Sox, worse by ten-fold than the Red Sox, are solidly in command of this year's World Series. I am so mad I could puke.
I lament in anguish, "Oh what hath I done that the Lord should favor mine enemies?"
They are but a plague, a scourge to all that is good. They stand against the noble, they war against the Twins. They are my most bitter rival, and their success is my destruction, and the destruction of all beauty.
I hate the White Sox. They make me angry.
Or I could still be reeling from the death of Obi-Wan.
Like a giant carbonated soda, S-O-D-A, soda