I Am The Meaning of Awesomest

True story: if you search "the meaning of awesomest" on google, my page will appear. Why is that? Obviously because I am the meaning of awesomest. And speaking of awesomest, I would like to pen an open letter to the Colorado Rockies, after the Red Sox - clearly the second most awesomest thing to have ever come out of Boston, besides myself - pounded their asses so hard they now keep spouting off odd things like "I wish I knew how to quit you" and "Jake, stop touching me there."

Dear Rockies,

Your team name is supposed to evoke images of the grand Rocky Mountains, the formidable range of jutting peaks that separate you from your unfortunate positioning between the polygamy enthusiasts of Utah and the banjo-twanging incestuous denizens of Oklahoma. You are a mecca for the rich and famous, boasting awe inspiring mountainous peaks, Olympics-worthy ski trails, and enough high end boutiques to keep Hollywood starlets gleefully shopping for weeks on end. You stand proudly among your Rocky Mountain home, glaring fiercely at anyone that may question your authority, feeling empowered and emboldened by your National League pennant win, and yet there is one chink in your armor, one crack in your dam of mountain-y authority:

You are a bunch of pussies.

Yes, that's right, I said it. While you were off getting mani-pedis and sipping frappuccinos during your week hiatus, the Red Sox were gearing up to smash your skulls into the ground with the force of their awesomeness. They were toying with the Indians, and then crushing them into a bloody pulp, all the while shaking out their long hair, stroking their manly beards, and fitting in time for a breathtaking jig to the sounds of The Dropkick Murphys.

Josh Beckett was hurling 95+ mph fast balls and reducing your teammates to teary, frightened bitches, while your own pitchers (all 40 of them that had to come out and weakly attempt to not get entirely slaughtered) fell before his greatness, granting us 13 runs to your pathetic 1. Perhaps you should've allowed time for Jeff Francis' balls to drop before letting him open the series.

You threw yourselves at our hits like epileptic children having fits (oh, that's good, very poetic, I should write that one down), missing outrageously and spasming on the way down to your bone-crunching collision with our turf. You should've remained on the ground, dirtied and defeated, and waved an ACME white flag just to stop the pain.

Tonight I see no change in the dynamics. You shall continue to pull your pants down, bend over, and bite your lip, and we shall hover like the gods we are, laughing heartily, and enjoying the ensuing pounding.

XOXO,
Chelsea

God has spoken

Days till Halloween: 6