Dearest Nation of Crimson Hosiery:

What the hell happened? Not even a few short weeks ago, your beloved team of God-fearing child-like dance-instructors were on top of the most expensive division in all of Major League Baseball. The media outlets were once again prostrate at the cleats of you and your heated rivals, the soon-to-be Bed-Stuy Blackstripers. The cornucopia of shirts denouncing the supposed sexual proclivities of players on said Bedstuy squadron were selling hand over Sam-Adams-clenching fist out on cozy little Landsdowne Street. And, most importantly, those derisive chants echoing through the corridors of enemy territory – 2004! *clap-clap* 2004! – were looking like taunts from a distant past life.

But while yours truly (Misters Fagen & Becker, Cultural Gadflys At Large), preparing for yet another wildly successful tour of this fine contiguous landmass, were distracted by the antics of one Jared “Who, Me, Lose?” Weaver and two LA Times mouthbreathers (whose names I won’t deign to mention – names have power, don’tcha know), shit hit the fan like Khruschev’s shoe hit UN furniture. And, boy, this past weekend, that shit proved to be the stuff of undercooked chicken and corn-on-the-cob eating contests.

Now, you may be asking yourself what two worldy West-Coast types such as ourselves are doing wading through the morass that is the plight of the Boston Red Sox. After all, we spent a good deal of our time plying our trade out in the NYC – surely showing concern for That Team due east is tantamount to inviting Squeaky Fromme to take a hit off your hookah. But, we confess, while the old town still holds a special place in our heart (and our business), our affinity for the most expensive team in the sport is on the wane. There is no joy in this Mudville when every Casey in the league (Sean, Stengel, Kasem, Siemaszko, &c.) is available for a song, dance, and future considerations. This group’s mercenarial professionalism is heartening only to those that like sure things, like property or taxes or Daylight Savings Time. Outside of the folks that design the stamp-sized reminders squeezed onto the front page of your local tabloid, does anyone really enjoy Daylight Savings Time?

Boston’s bunch, on the other hand, while nearly matching their rivals penny for penny, possess a certain joie de je ne sais quoi (pardonez-moi and my grade-school French). For The Dan, that joie starts and ends with the lovable galoof out in left field, the derided and misunderstood man-child with a preternatural gift to smack the shit out of the ball (both with bat and glove) and make it look like he’s lollygagging, postage due. This irresistable ball of fuzzfun (currently on the mend – get well soon, Man-Ram!) reminds us elder statesmen of jazz-pop-rock-funk of the halcyon days of our musical beat combo, and specifically the beret-abetted antics of one Jeffrey “Skunk” Baxter. Despite our advancing years, we could recount many wondrous and lighthearted stories of “Skunk being Skunk” that would probably strike strangers as odd or disturbing or perhaps even worthy of legal proceedings. That is, we could, if Mr. Baxter weren’t currently advising our government in matters of national security. The less guff we receive from G-men, the easier it is for our pyramid schemes to succeed sans hitch.

But we digress, as our multitude of fans know all too well. Our purpose for writing this open letter to you Red Sox fans is to say that we, the two-headed behemoth behind multi-platinum recording sensation Goofus & Gallant’s Midnight In-n-Out Burger Run, feel your pain. There, there. There, there. More importantly, we feel the pain of all parties affected by this tragic descent into the dire muck of mediocrity. Whither the hook to be had when media conglomerates can no longer trumpet the deathless rivarly between colonial ingenuity and slick city wile? Where is the suspense to be had in the playoff season if there is no red and white to counter the black and white? What shall beat writers have to write about if there is no threat of yet another intriguing Boston / New York tete-a-tete?

I shudder to consider the alternatives if this grand sport of champions and smokeless tobacco afficionados is forced to turn a blind eye to this corner of the globe. Will the world care about the stem-to-stern success of Detroit? Will there be interest in the South Side of Chicago now that they’re just another defending World Series champion? Does anyone even know if Kansas City still has a team that’s not indentured to another major league franchise? These are questions that those in power will have to ask themselves in the near future, and the answers might change the game as we see it.

In the meantime, we ask the following to those in that fair maligned city, on behalf of baseball fans across the globe – would one of you overpaid dipshits on the Red Sox please try to actually, y’know, not fuck up? Our bookie, and his vig, thanks you in advance.

Steely Dan’s Donald Fagen and Walter Becker give Snakes on a Plane two thumbs up.