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![[img]](http://www.sportsrant.com/forums/vbmynews/viewthu.php?id=050604-913712) To the dozen or so people that read my columns, my absence last week must have left a Kirstie Alley sized whole in your lives. But fret not oh loyal Sports Ranters, The Mean Machine has returned after spending a much needed, but not exactly earned, week soaking in fun and sun in the Virgin Islands. Not to disappoint, the mortal combination of excessive alcohol consumption and 2nd degree sunburn allowed me to retain my ability to get pissed off, even in a tropical paradise.
I will be the first to admit that living in Boston, any sporting event that does not concern the area north of Hartford and south of Maine might as well be non-existent. That is why when someone brings up NASCAR during a serious sports discussion, I look at them as if I were a Spanish cleaning lady at an Oxford debate on contemporary Shakespearian neo-political strategy. Que?
Such was the case during my layover in the heavily cultured Charlotte Douglas International Airport. I saw no fewer than three NASCAR themed restaurants and shops. I also saw no more than three teeth in each patron’s mouth. Perhaps it is because I have an IQ larger than my shoe size, but I never understood the appeal of cigarette smoking rednecks making left turns in cars decorated in such a way that they could double for the D.A.R.E.-mobile. Out of fear of being on the business end of one of the southerners’ many legally concealed firearms, I dared not open my mouth; but rather reminded myself that tolerance is a virtue. So, despite my desire to stop inbreeding in my lifetime, I allowed the Tarheels to have their day at the track, watching shiny, colorful, clown cars go vroom vroom vroom.
Things did not get much better as I ventured further south. While on the annoyingly tranquil island of St. John, I came to the conclusion that the only sports fans are overweight and overly made-up girls in bikinis. This judging from the abundance of pink New York Yankee caps situated atop their stringy sun fried hair. Aside from my tempered misgivings about female Yankee fans (“GO YANKEES! Derek Jeter is just sooooooo hot! Tee Hee”), the pink Yankee cap is the antithesis of everything sports represent. The sports cap serves as a symbol of support, it should in no way be a fashion statement. I wear my beat-up, sweat stained, foul smelling Red Sox hat everywhere I go during the season despite the fact that it makes me look homeless. I am sure true Yankee fans do the same (though most of them already look and smell homeless due to poor personal hygiene). But ultimately, the uber-femme color of pink has absolutely noooo place on the athlete’s easel, unless of course said athlete is Mike Piazza.
Attempts to follow the sporting events of the civilized world were no less bothersome. Tradewinds, the seemingly definitive source for St. John’s news could not provide box scores for MLB games, but did inform me of the fascinating study involving the wild donkey population on the islands. Apparently, there are ten year round citizens to every one wild ass. Coincidently, I believe the same ratio exists for the number of illegitimate children to NBA players.
So, one can imagine my misery when I returned home to discover the Red Sox recent pitching and injury woes. That coupled with cold, drizzly, dreary weather (described as “unseasonable” despite the fact that it occurs every season) made “there is no place like home” feel like “sure, but there is also no place like Hell.” At the very least, I know I can open up my Boston Globe tomorrow morning with the confidence that any NASCAR story will be buried the back pages, probably between gun show ads and the farm report.
Wish you were here…and I was someplace else!!!! - The Mean Machine
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