"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.