My Ulcer is telling me it's September.

Tight division games.

Pepto Bismal in Sam's Club quantities.

Ted pacing the living room floor muttering expletives under his breath and questioning the parental legitimacy of umpires everywhere.

All this must mean it's September and the Sox are in the midst of their annual playoff race with the Yankees.

Only this year, down is up, left is right, and it's the Rays, not the Yankees I'm worried about.

Which is the reason it's 10:24 pm and I'm raging against the machine while the Rays and the Sox head to the bottom of the 10th inning tied at 1-1. Would somebody tell these noobs that they are at Fenway Park, it's September, and they are supposed to roll over and play dead while we steamroll to the division title?

I've waited all year for them to finally FAIL in their attempt to win the AL East; I reckon I otta finally give credit where credit is due. But after all these years of sweating the Yankees out for an entire season, I was ready to coast into October.

So screw them, screw Maddon and his idiotic glasses, and screw all those blue hairs in Florida hoping they'll have playoff baseball next month. I want carnage, havoc, and mass destruction so I can go to bed and sleep the sleep of the victorious.

They leave Pedie stranded at third in the bottom of the tenth and I'm off to hit myself in the gibleys with a ball peen hammer.

Apparently, it doesn't count if it comes easily; I think I'll get a price quote on a full time shrink tomorrow.