A Rhubarb Revival

When the White Sox are "good" I don’t exist. Neither do you.

We don't exist in the sense that we are different people depending on how the Sox are performing. What is a fan anyway?

If you care enough to pay attention to something you hate, you’re a fan. That is my definition.

Some fans try to continuously improve the team in their imaginations. That is your problem.

You are rooting for the wrong motherfuckers. Oh. No you aren’t. How can you continuously improve the Dodgers in your imagination?

You can’t. You need this team as the pliers to your emotional toenails you sick fucks.

White Sox fans have two gears come playoff time:

1. Are we gonna be lucky as fuck?

2. We are so excited but Rick Sutcliffe is the color guy.

No hope. Except for luck. Only because we don’t know what luck feels like. There are external factors influencing our luck. For example, the 21st century has flummoxed our front office. The spreadsheets are in MS Paint. Hand made in Cambodia.

Hope for luck is losing in life but atleast I feel something.

Winning is a bed of nails. No lessons learned unless Jerry is the teacher. Those nails sink into your fan flesh and you fucking scream eventually. The broken hamate, the hamstring puncturing. The major league scouting. Your daughter is a cutter. She goes to youth group at Bethleham Lutheren. The Sox lose and you think about the months of dreariness.

Then you wake. The juice uncoagulates and courses your veins. Each winning streak (they say each team gets one) unjuices the juice and you google things that confirm your hope for some luck.

I blame us fans for the team being pussies. They feel our dread, our multitude of historical hangups, our unfortunate learned genetic traits.

Such as: the churro was okay and they lost, I almost pissed myself on opening day so I paid an usher $20 to let me piss in a garbage can, I despise everyone around me because I thought that I was the most miserable person here but I am wrong again.


My fan arteries are cholesterol free right now. The promise of another season has salted my resolve.

I often think about the severe burn victim in a wheel chair I saw begging for money outside Old Comiskey in the late 80’s. I like to think he is in a better place but I know he isn’t. Hell is real but it’s not when you die. I think I'd rather be in Hell than celebrating perfection (or luck) because I wouldn't be me anymore and you wouldn't be you.

I look forward to a Clevinger home opener. I want to hate this hideous idea of what the Sox should be. It’s all I have left. Except for the fantasies of Andy the Clown’s nuts on Renisdorf’s chin. The cuck, Larussa, leers in a dark corner of the salt bath licking chocolate malt off a wooden spoon.

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