What the hell is a Yawkey?

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Bitches, there is clam chowder all over my costume.

Dog, I have no idea how it got there, but it is tres, tres disappointing. That is some fine linen I'm wearing, ruined by the skanky smell of chowder. Halloween only comes once a year, so I have gots to look my best, and this year I am proudly dressed as the great Conquistador Hernando de Cortes.

Shit, I am a fly looking mofo, if you can forgive that white ooze all over my breastplate. And I don't know what that English professor old man Mike Lowell was thinking, saying I looked like Marvin the Martian. Then again, ain't so bad representing the lone brother from the Looney Tunes. That shit was tight. Goddamn Elmer Fudd cracked my shit up.

I thought it was gonna take a whole lot more alcohol to get me trying out that chowder shit that the smelly local folk mispronounce all the time, but I have no recollection of the past 24 hours. That, my bitches, is what happens when you've had too much Goldschlager with the brunettes of Boston. And also, too much psychedelic cocktails and baseball.

I've been hopping bars with some of the Red Sox since their plane landed last night. I got myself a Flotsam insider interview with the World Series MVP, promptly reminded him what a fine piece of ass his wife was, got kicked out, and then suckered my way past the bouncers pretending to be Hideki Okajima's little broham. Dog, when I squint, I swear we're like twins.

Shit, that's the last thing I remember. I'm pretty sure at some point I started singing the Canadian national anthem with Eric Gagne, and I might have been in a three-way with Jonathan Papelbon. And Jacoby Ellsbury.

Also, I'm pretty sure the phrase "Big Papismear" is a bad one to use around some of these bitches, but I can't be sure. Whatever the case, I know I liked it, and it's a good time to be in Bostonia. The Patriots are fly, the Celtics are about to check out what KG and Ray Allen can do while not passing, and the Red Sox are World Motherfucking Champions. Everybody's happy here, and drunk, and sensationally easy.

I think I'm gonna stay here all week, at least until the damn Patriots win the Super Bowl. I wonder if Goldschlager tastes good with that lingering taste of chowder on my tongue.