For serious.

Cut it out, you dicks. You're killing me over here.

Tampa Bay? Really? Are any of you paying attention? Who the hell are you people?

Yeah, that's right. This is the part of the year when we the faithful turn on you like a pack of hungry dingoes. You disgust us. And it has to stop. Those nice men are paying you a lot of money. We are giving you our time and we have given you our patience. We liked the four game lead when it wasn't important, but would you please, for the love of all that is holy, hold on to a damned 1 1/2 game lead when you're playing Tampa Frickin' Bay? What are you, the Yankees circa a month ago? Catch the fly and, you know, hold onto it. Get a hit. Stop stranding runners. You're driving me insane.

Many thanks to Hansen for pulling his weight. Welcome to the hell that is late season Red Sox baseball, Craig. I hope you have a strong stomach.

[B]y night's end, Craig Hansen was the best thing the Red Sox had going for them, the 97-mile-per-hour fastball he displayed in a scoreless fifth inning a testament to youth and energy, two characteristics that the weary Sox seem to be lacking at the most vital time.

Wells, only slightly more effective than Matt Clement a day earlier, lasted a mere 2 2/3 innings, surrendering four runs on 10 hits in a crushing 8-7 loss to the Devil Rays last night. The issue? An inflamed right knee that is likely to be injected with cortisone between now and Wells's next start, Sunday at Baltimore.

Tony Graffanino, meanwhile, exited in the third inning, after straining his left groin. Trot Nixon fell ill before the game and needed two bags of IV fluid. Terry Francona promptly wiped Nixon's name off the white lineup card, which Francona said his right fielder ''looked the color of." That landed Adam Hyzdu in the starting lineup in Game No. 150 of the season. (Chris Snow, boston.com)

They're all sick and weak and tired. Me too. My back is knotted, my knees tremble, I can't focus, I find myself filled with unspeakable ire. And I'm not even playing. Why am I held together with bailing twine and Aleve, propelled, sleep-deprived, by rage? You know what would make us all feel better? A win! Maybe a couple in a row? We have a half-game lead in the East and if it all goes to hell over the next few days, well, it seems unlikely that we'll get the wild card.

I'm sure I'll be saying it again, but I'm beggin' ya: Stop screwing the pooch. I can't take it. I cannot continue pacing my apartment from computer to television (from Sox scores online to Yankees game on TV) like a caged animal. It's undignified. Would you just give a girl a little peace of mind? If I start losing my hair, and having Aaron Boone nightmares as October approaches, so help me....

Also: Found a great Sox blog via Deadspin. He also calls them names, which I appreciate right now: The Joy of Sox.

(image of "Boomer, the pooch-screwer" from boston.com)