Mike Motley, Baseball Genius

Shoulda gone with Mickey-D's, bro.

For the past two months or so, the Boston Red Sox have been the biggest joke in Major League Baseball. Bigger than the collapse by the Atlanta Braves. Bigger than C.C. Sabbathia's gut. Bigger than Tony La Russa's Game 5 brain fart. Bigger than Ken Rosenthal's "Pee-Wee-Herman" bow ties.

However, the humor went from a stand-up act and escalated into an all out Jeffrey-Ross-endorsed comedy roast when the rumors of the starting pitchers lounging around with beer, fried chicken and video games in the dugouts during off-days started to fly. Yeah, thanks to BeerChickenXBoxGate, we've been able to have a physical target of all of our venom towards the team, a hatred that had been incubating under Boston for the past eight years.

Thanks, LOLSOX.

Now, John Lackey's ERA did resemble a quarterback's fantasy football score. Tim Wakefield did take forever to get to a statistic that won't mean much to the Hall of Fame, and "Sweet Caroline" did become the anthem for everything wrong about the Fenway experience. However, I'm not about to pin all this on Popeye's and BL Limes. Josh Beckett didn't have career lows in batting average, runs and stolen bases (Carl Crawford), and Lackey didn't strand an AL-leading 7.35 runners per game.

In fact, I'm going to suggest that beer isn't the problem; it could easily be part of the solution.

Mike Motley and his boss, Mr. Drudge

Back in the 80s, my favorite things to do on Sunday were watch sports on TV and pop out the "funnies". While my upbringing presented the blue-collar lifestyle to me, I got a lot of its humor by reading "Motley's Crew", a comic by Ben Templeton and Tom Forman. It was all about Mike Motley, a middle-America factory worker who slaved away during the week for a thankless boss, but once the weekend was here, Mike showed his love for Blotto Beer and his conversation with his bar buddies.

In May 1984, Mike Motley came up with a solution that could solve the Sox's woes instantly. In fact, it would likely get the starting pitchers to enjoy trips to National League parks and get them running the base paths. (Pardon the quality; Dad's used it for a bulletin board for years.)

Guarantee you Lackey's elbow would miraculously heal itself overnight.

"Candy and costumes...how can you beat that?"

Well said. I mean, beer and chicken in the dugout is one thing, but cider, costumes, and candy corn? PARTY TIME EXCELLENT.

That's what brings out the best in sports. Athletes? Having fun in COSTUME? That's the total opposite of having your lazy friend show up as Curt Schilling at a Halloween kegger with a Red Sox jersey and a pillow around his stomach.

Some athletes get the point and totally love showing up in costume, while a token few just sleepwalk through the "fun". Take, for example, the latest Halloween mirth by the Boston Bruins as they spread some Halloween cheer at the Children's Hospital on Tuesday. Tell me that you weren't hoping for Tyler "Hail" Seguin in a devil's outfit, Shawn Thornton as a surgeon, or Tim Thomas as GOD.

Picture courtesy of NESN's Naoko Funayama.

Yes, that is, from right to left, Adam McQuaid as Fonzie Flintstone, Jordan Caron as the iParty Purchase, and Zdeno Chara as OH GOD THE ENERGIZER BUNNY'S HERE TO KILL US ALL. I'm totally sorry for using Duracell all these years!

And way on the left, it's Fratboy Charming himself, Brad Marchingband!

Looking at the still-frame jocularity coming from the Bruins made me recall just how much fun Boston sports has with their costumes. While the Green Men in Vancouver pooled $100 together and squeezed into Spandex, at least our players get creative with their Halloween gigs! You must remember all the costumes that New England athletes have sported over the years, right?

"Welcome to Woostah! Dollah Twenty-Five!"

It's not something I've been proud of, but I'm a self-admitted "Masshole".

• I pronounce the word "bar" as if the "R" key on my computer was broken.
• Dukakis, Kerry, and Romney were the punchline to local political jokes before they became the punchline to national political jokes.
• Beans are meant to be baked with cinnamon and molasses and served with hot dogs and brown bread.
• Manhattan Clam Chowder is an inferior product. In fact, if you even put a tomato close to my clam chowder, I'll disown you faster than Boston disowned Bill Simmons.
• Denis Leary, Lenny Clarke, and Steve Sweeney will make me laugh every time. Dane Cook is just a fabricated figment of your imagination.
• Sam Adams is both a Founding Father and a namesake to a wicked good "bee-yah". (Yes, that's two syllables.)
• Aerosmith and J. Geils may get the national recognition, but Mission of Burma, the Pixies and Morphine form the rock bedrock.

Most importantly, I'm a Masshole who's not afraid to stand with his sports franchises, even if doing so associates me with histories of being a pathetic loser or a loud-mouthed sore winner. Depending on the time of the year, I'll bleed Black and Gold, Kelly Green, 1986 Grey, or Pat-the-Patriot Red.

To me, the most important feet in sports were kicking field goals in the Louisiana Superdome in 2002, leaking blood from a sutured ankle in 2004, and flying four feet over the ice in 1970.

To me, the Big Three were the first Big Three.

To me, Dave Roberts will never have to buy another beer for himself in a Boston drinking hole ever again, but Alex Rodriguez will have to show a picture I.D. just to cross the border into Berkshire County.

To me, Bill Laimbeer, Roberto Luongo and LeBron James are all cut from the same tear-soaked cloth, yet I'll defend Homers such as Johnny Most, Jack Edwards and Scott Zolak to the bitter end.

To me, sports media has the power to drive my Compete Level to 10 and my frustration level to suicide lines at the Tobin Bridge.

To me, Carl Everett was both a lousy ball-player and a lyrical genius (re: Curly-Haired Boyfriend.)

I may not like the stereotype, but practically everything that embodies the elitism of the "Masshole", from "The Rick" to the "Boston Teens" sketch on Saturday Night Live ("You're retahded!" "You are!"), applies to me and my acquaintances. I've known a Kennedy, a Sully and a Murph—three of them, in fact. I've bathed in victory beers and wallowed in bitter apathy, and I wouldn't trade any of those tastes for the finest wines in the world.

And right now, I'm a thousand miles away from a Mass Pike tollbooth.