Josh Q. Public:  This is the end.  My only friend, the end.  Of our elaborate plans, the end.  Of everything that stands, the end.  No safety or surprise, the end.  I'll never look into your eyes...again.  -The Doors

Public Service Announcement:  OK, here we go!  Ha ha ha!  This is too easy.  Easy like Weezy.  Like Chester Cheezey.  This is it.  Make no mistake where you are.  This is it.  Your back's to the corner.  This is it.  Don't be a fool anymore.  This is it.  This is it Yankees fans.  Turn back Gulliver. You'll never make it.  You're doomed.  Yes you are doomed.  Sinestro.  Bizaro.  Captain Cold.  Solomon  Grundy.  The whole lot of them.  Doomed.  Doomed, I say!  This is the time to put them down.  Old Yeller style.  Now and then, for no good reason, life will haul off and knock a man flat.  The Sox are gonna knock the Yankees flat.  Flat on their backs.  It's a set-up.  Heartbreak.  The deck's stacked, so put your foot to the floor.  And darling don't look back.  No don't look back.  Keep steeping on their necks.  Their pencil necks.  Pencil neck geek, grit eatin' freak, scum suckin', pea head with a lousy physique.  He's a one man, no gut, loosing streak.  Nothin' but a pencil neck geek.  Keep steppin' on Robby Cannot's neck as he nonchalants he way to mediocrity.  Rod Carew who?  I've got more action than my man Jon Woo, and I've got more hits than Rod Carew.  Keep steppin' on Giambi Juice's neck as the Yankees look for a way to correct a mistake.  Keep steppin' on Not OK Igawa's neck as his twenty million dollar contract fritters away down in the minors.  Keep steppin' on Little Andy Petite's neck as he gets absolutely no run support.  Keep steppin' on Joe Torre's neck as we listen to names like Bowa, Mattingly and Girardi.  Keep steppin' on Bullwinkle's neck as he pitches himself into obscurity.  Keep steppin' on the Caveman's neck as the Sox don't look so silly after all.  Kepp steppin' on El Comedulce's neck as Cashman looks sillier and sillier all the time.  Keep steppin' on the Yankees pitching staff's necks as they never seem to stay in longer than six.  Keep steppin' on A-Broad's neck as his May turns as sour as his April was sweet.  Yes fans, it's time for the kill shot.  The cyanide pill shot.  The Battle of Bunker Hill shot.  It's time for those damned Yankees to meet their makers that are the juggernaut Red Sox.  The sluggernaut Red Sox.  The snug as a bug in a ruggernaut Red Sox.  We got three more games coming up.  Three big ones.  Big Fig ones.  Ewy, gewy, rich and chewy inside.  Golden, flaky, tender on the outside.  Wrap the inside with the outside.  Is it good?  Darn tootin!  It's the Big Fig Newton!  Three games.  The past and the present and the future.  Faith and Hope and Charity.  The heart and the brain and the body.  Give you three as a magic number.  Well, the magic number's actually 111, but who's counting?  Roll Sox roll!

Public Acknowledgements:  Kenny Loggins, Glum, DC Comics, Fred Gipson, Bruce Springsteen, Classy Freddy Blassy, New York Post, Beastie Boys, Nabisco, School House Rock and Rob Diamond.

Peace out homies.  Sox Two and Even!