I have recently received confidential, exclusive information on par with the stained blue dress revelation.
The Red Sox have won the World Series.
No really, it’s true. The mainstream media will probably pick up this story later today, but you can tell all your friends that you heard it here first.
What will happen next, aside from hundreds of drunk “fans” getting arrested for “celebrating” in Boston?
Will dogs and cats live in harmony? Will my children eat all their vegetables?
Will a talentless teeny pop tart get caught lip synching on national TV? Will winter in New England be partly sunny and in the mid-70s? Will Tom and Nicole reconcile? Will Martha Stewart win her appeal? Will Bill O’Reilly be exposed as a smarmy sexual harasser? Will my mother stop telling me my hair looks like a “rat’s nest”? Will I win another fantasy football game this season? Will archaeologists discover that Hobbits really existed, giving millions of Tolkien geeks hope that Gandolf will be found alive? Will I ever again make it through the night without having to get up to pee? Will I ever have one of those houses that looks like it belongs in a home design magazine? Will the presidential candidates be interviewed about sports on the eve of the election? Will my dog stop licking his pecker and non-existent balls right before he tries to kiss my children on the face?
I mean, come on. What were the chances that the Red Sox would win the World Series? If they can do that, then anything is possible.
[Also posted at Bitch Has *Word*.]