BOSTON - Finally, a resolution to a mess that has dragged on far too long.

No, not Muammar/Momar Gaddafi Khaddafi KFC I don’t care what his name is. Yes, he is dead, but there are bigger issues at hand. Much bigger fish to fry.

The Boston Red Sox and Chicago Cubs have, at long last, worked out a compensatory deal to release GM Theo Epstein from his contract with the Red Sox.

In exchange for Epstein being allowed to break contract one year early and join the Cubs’ front office as President of Baseball Operations, the Boston club will receive Steve Bartman, a goat, a bucket of fried chicken from a restaurant to be named later, and Ron Santo’s left leg.

It is said that as the negotiations wound down Larry Lucchino and Ben Cherington, representing Boston’s interests, tried in vain to get the infamously stingy Cubs organization to sweeten the pot by tossing in a souvenir program from the 2009 Bridgestone Winter Classic, which was held at Wrigley Field. But in the end, the sides agreed that what was coming back the Red Sox’s way was fair enough.

A press conference is will be held at 2PM Friday at Addison and Clark, where Chicago is expected to formally announce the arrival of Epstein, as well as his new general manager Jed Hoyer, whom Epstein hand-picked from the San Diego Padres front office.

The Red Sox aimed high in their initial attempt to extract “fair compensation” from Chicago during the exhausting and at-times tumultuous negotiations. One Red Sox source, speaking on condition of anonymity, told the Globe that at one point, Red Sox CEO Larry Lucchino threatened Cubs principal owner Tom Ricketts, saying he wanted to, “Test his new golf swing with some rebar and [Ricketts’] fat [expletive] domepiece.” The spat was apparently because Boston’s initial offered included the Harry Caray statue which is situation in front of the hallowed Wrigley Field.

And now, the search for a new Red Sox field manager may begin in earnest.

Michael J. Caldwell writes for the Boston Globe

He may be reached at localinsomniac@gmail.com or thetits@boston.com

Somebody once said that low-scoring hockey games were boring. Well, I hope that person died of stupid. That was easily the most exciting, nerve-wracking, heartburn-inducing 60 minutes of professional sport I have ever seen.

I will put this out there right now, this post is not for anyone who is not a fan of the Boston Bruins, hockey in general, or sloppy oral sex lubricated with blood and tears. To say that the language here is salty would be to say that a McGriddles washed down with two pints of Guinness may not be the best dietetic choice.

You’ve been warned.

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Here’s an email that I keep getting from some hard-on that made his fortune by scamming other people out of the dollars that they worked their asses off for. Every time I report a message to Gmail as spam, I receive another within days. So I have decided that I will let them do their thing, and have a little fun with it myself. Read after the break for the most recent message I have received from this mouth-breather who probably would have looked better as a sticky wad on his mother’s eyelids. It is followed by my response. Enjoy.

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Have you ever gotten the feeling you’ve broken something that can’t be fixed? Not in the way you took apart the engine of a car when you were in trade school, then left everything to deteriorate and rust out for years and years. You finally get around to reassembling the thing, only to find out that the parts are long since obsolete.

Maybe it is a little like that.

Your words imply that you were sad and regretful for a while, like I am now. But eventually you learned to be happy without me. I pushed you away, forced you to move on and you did. I’m afraid it might be too late to try and win you back.

I’m sorry.

Every so often, you get something in the mail you weren’t expecting. Sometimes, it’s something you yourself mailed, that found it’s way back to you. Normally, that means one of two things- wrong address, or restrainer. This time it’s fate. And if Matthew Fox has taught us anything, it’s that we have to go back.

He might have mumbled something about escaping fate and how you can’t do it. I don’t know, he’s a drunk.

So I wrote this almost five years ago. It’s dated 12/9/05, exactly six weeks before the Bush administration turned a year old. Apparently this was in response to a question about how I would handle the U.S. presidency. It doesn’t have a name, because I can’t remember writing the silly thing. So let’s call it “Dirty Harry.” I just re-read it and laughed my ass off. That seems like a good enough reason to share it with you. Don’t prove me wrong.

::knock knock knock::

President Me: Yeah what.

Dilworth: It’s Dilworth, sir. Ken Dilworth. I have the treaty from the UN. May I come in?

PM: No.

KD: Come again?

PM: Just slip it under the door.

KD: Is everything okay, sir? You sound a little….hoarse.

PM: I’m fine. I’m just really tired.

KD: Sir. Mr. President, sir. If you’ll just op-

PM: Listen Dickworth, I’m a busy man. Please slip it under the door and walk away.

KD: It’s Dilworth, sir. And I must speak to you face-to-face about the treaty.

PM: ::audibly exaggerated sigh:: Fine.

KD: ::fumbling:: It’s locked.

PM: Then we both lose. I don’t feel like getting out of the chair.

KD: Sir, what’s that smell, sir?

KD: Sir?

KD: SIR.

PM: Skunk. Body odor. That’s the real reason you can’t come in. I have rancid B.O.

::long pause, followed by a knock::

PM: You’re still there? Jesus, just leave it and email me or something! Isn’t that what you kids do these days? Just fucking email it to me.

PM: “Prez” with a “Z,” four-two-zero at white house dot gov.

::longer, more impregnated pause::

KD: Sir?

PM: Are you above crouching down to slide something under the door of the nation’s highest office? Do you just want me to have a mail slot installed? Because you’re already in civil service. Is that all it is, Dilbert?

KD: Dilworth, Mr. President, sir. It won’t fit under the door.

PM: ::under his breath:: You’ve gotta be fuc-

PM: FAX IT. You’ve got a fax machine in your office, right?

KD: You won’t have all of it until next week, and the UN needs it signed kind of now-ish.

PM: You’re killing my buzz, Dillhole. Leave it in front of the door or you’re fired.

::a full six seconds pass::

KD: Yes sir.

PM: ::looks around, then to self:: Now what the fuck did I do with that roach clip.

This inanimate carbon rod, of course.

Just kidding. You’re my favorite inanimate object, tumblrbot. You and only you. <3

Those were something for which you were always notorious. You had a thing for using “these” where they don’t really “belong.” It’s one of those oddly endearing characteristics that was always unique to you.

How’s it been going? You know, it’s been over a year since you and I have had a chance to talk, and I’m not gonna lie- I still regret the way our last conversation ended. It was a tough time for me and as we have all come to know, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for you, either.

So hey, birthday! Wow, the big 5-0. You can’t be psyched about it, but I would be willing to bet that you look pretty good for a guy who just entered a new set of 10s. It’s a milestone for you! For me, it’s almost just another number. Almost. So many rock gods were taken away at 27, never to be seen again. Your Joplins, your Hendrixes, your Morrisons and, more recently, your Cobains.

Me, I’m no rock god. And I like to think there’s no drug or alcohol problem (I’ve learned a lot from you) steering me toward an early end. That is my favorite number though; the one I always wanted to wear in sports was #27. I got to wear once, with the last organized team I played for. And wow did we suck. Better late than never though, right?

You know what else is weird to me? I used to get letters from you all the time, and didn’t really know how to write back. That was mostly because you had a tendency to forget some of the things you had already asked, as well as how I answered those questions. So 50% of it was the same every time. That tended to be kind of frustrating, but it was mostly offset by the joy of hearing from you at all.

And for the record, no, I’m not still driving the green Nissan.

To finish that thought, what I wanted to say was that writing this to you has come much more naturally than answering your letters from Club Dartmouth. Could be the gap in communications, or it could be the idea - one that’s been assaulting my brain - that you’ll never read any of these words. Now to finish the thought before that one, yesterday was bittersweet. It was a good day. At least, as good as being at work on a Monday can get. So many birthday wishes from unexpected names, which was nice. But then there’s the pit in my stomach that won’t go away because this is the first year I can’t just call you up and say, “Happy Birthday Dad!”

It’s different now, and it can never be the same. August 30 will never be the same.

You left us with something of a burden, but we forgive you.  We know you were suffering the last few years of your life, so it comes as a small dose of relief to know that you’re not in pain anymore.

But we are.

I miss you every day, and I can guarantee that all things considered, the girls do too. For all your flaws - and there were plenty of them - you were still a decent man with a big heart. Hope you don’t mind hanging out on my bookshelf and keeping me company for a little while.

There are some negative traits I wish I hadn’t inherited from you, but it comes with the territory I suppose. I don’t resent you for it; that’s just how it is.

Kind of ironic that you left us on Halloween, isn’t it? I didn’t find out until a month ago that All Hallow’s was your favorite holiday but it makes sense- you always went all-out decorating the house and the yard in October. It also makes me wonder if things happened the way they did by design. I sincerely hope not. It would break my heart all over again to find out you did this on purpose.

Sit tight. We’re working on pulling something together for Halloween this year. A proper sendoff, so to speak. Even after a full year, it’s going to be immensely difficult when the time does finally come and we have to say goodbye.

Wherever you are, you’ve no doubt met your grandson by now. Take care of him, please. Tell him that his mother and father miss him dearly; that all his other grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and would-be siblings desperately wish we could have him back.

We wish we could have you back.

We’ll see you again. Hopefully not too soon, but rather when the time is right.

I love you, Dad. We love you. Happy Birthday.

Required reading. No, I’m not a comedian. Odds are I never will be. But Twitter is a place which fosters exactly that sort of creativity, 140 characters at a time. There are very few people who care to read the filthy, horrid funnel cloud of “funny” that twists itself up in my head daily, but fortunately they all seem to have found @localinsomniac. I am fortunate to have found @robdelaney.

Rob Delaney is a brilliantly corrupt comedic mind. It’s not a coincidence that he made it to LA via Boston. I am very thankful for his existence.

robdelaney:

I was fortunate enough to receive my 20,000th follower on Twitter this weekend.  It is fun and ridiculous that so many people (give or take a Viagra bot or two) read my silly jokes. As a standup, nothing makes me happier that performing a joke in front of live humans, but writing a joke and immediately having a large number of people be able to read it is a close second.  

Twitter has greatly improved my joke writing.  I write more regularly, knowing that I’ll get instant feedback.  Before Twitter, I primarily did longer things on stage. I still do, but Twitter has forced me to work on my short game and now many of my tweets have become part of my shows.  It’s also helped me recognize themes that unite a lot of my jokes that I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.  So thanks, Twitter, for being a very fun tool to use.

I also draw great inspiration from Twitter.  I hear it called a “writers’ room” or “the hive mind” and I regularly guffaw at things people post that I NEVER would have thought of. Whether it’s from an established comic genius like @serafinowicz or a diapered newcomer like @meganamram, I am consistently blown away by the creativity I see on Twitter.  You have to read funny things if you want to be funny yourself, and Twitter definitely fits that bill too.  

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The self-checkout at supermarkets - Stop & Shop, in this case - really cater to the stupid. Don’t get me wrong- I use it, because I’m better at it than Tom the cashier, who still needs to get permission from town hall before he can have a job. I use it, because I don’t want my eggs and my bloody hamburger patties in the same fucking bag.

But hey, these kids need the supermarket jobs to keep themselves from going and having premature (ejaculation) babies that they’re just going to give up the rights to anyway. What we DON’T need is for the population to grow anymore, especially not when this “convenient” technology is taking work away from the people who need it most: Bored teens. On the other hand, if Congress would just listen to me for once and legalize abortion all the way up until the baby turns 18, I wouldn’t even be sitting here ranting about this new-fangled bullshit like an old man on his porch with a shotgun.

So anyhoo. Yeah, self-checkout things. How dumb do they think we (I) are (am)? Anyone with a brain that hasn’t been freeze-dried by decades of coke and meth parties knows how to do it, right? Then again, on that kind of diet you probably aren’t eating more than a pepperoni Hot Pocket every other day. Whatever, that’s why they gave these jobs to kids in the first place. Because it’s easy.

Look, I know that when I walk up to the self-checkout station, I’m supposed to scan my supermarket discount card and goodies. That’s how it works. I don’t need your Fembot to tell me that. Then, after I’ve scanned all of that stuff, she tells me that I’ve scanned too much, that the “bagging area is full.” Now I have to put hat shit in bags (something else they used to do for me), and ONLY then can I start scanning the rest of my food/birthdays cards/tampons.

When I’ve gotten through to the end, I’m well aware after several weeks of doing my own grocery shopping that it’s time to pay. Again, I don’t need your robotic bitch machine telling me it’s time to swipe my debit card. And she just has to go over every minute detail!

1. Press ‘Continue’ when you’re done scanning; 2. Swipe your card; 3. Sign your name/punch in your PIN; 4. Hit the Enter button; 5. No, the other Enter button; 6. Steal one of the Hershey bars behind you; 7. Take receipt; 8. Go home and cry.

Honest to Allah, if you’re going to put me through all that, you might as well just reprogram the Goddamned thing to say, “For more detailed instructions, please drool on the scanner scale, then wait for the stoned teenager in the purple shirt to come by and hand-draw you a schematic.”

You should be paying ME minimum wage to buy food at your shit store.

Thanks asshole!