Okay, maybe I'm not giving up on the Sawx quite yet

After my Bronson Arroyo post earlier in the week (where I was able to successfully google chum "Theo Epstein" and "crack-smoking monkey" into the same post), it would seem I've given up all hope on the Red Sawx this season: that is not the case.

It seems that in all of the pampered, limoed, call-girled, Dom n' blowed, steroided, and overpaided (ed: paided? That isn't a word! Pub. Hush, he's on a roll) world of professional athletes there is one who has his priorities in order. Our David to take down the Goliath that is Barry "Yeah, so they've shriveled to the size of subatomic particles, which would explain my anger and rage" Bonds and all he represents.

My new hero? Mike Timlin.

Never in the long history of great American sports journalism---spanning the long career of Shirley Povich, to Frank DeFord, to Ray Barrone---has the following sentence ever been uttered:

Red Sox reliever Mike Timlin is going to extraordinary lengths for good, fresh barbecue.

Yeah, yeah, you're telling yourself, he had his valet Peppy get in touch with Jeter's assistant's assistant to find out from A-Rod's chaueffer's masseuse where was that place to get good, fresh barbecue, and could you send the ferrari to go pick it up, as the Benz SUV is getting repimped.

But you would be wrong.

The article proceeds to descibe Timlin, looking like something out of "Survivor: Lynard Skynard Land" sitting 12 feet up in a tree bow-hunting feral hogs in the everglades.

I mean for goodness sakes, he looks like Angelina Jolie's dad near the end of Deliverance, when he pops out of the water and spears the three-eyed mutant hillbillly in the head. (And, if we want to complete the analogy, we'd just cast Don Zimmer in the Ned Beaty role, because, you know, Zim always had a mighty purty mouth).

New York slugger and animal rights activist*** Jason Giambi had the following comment:

We Yankees gonna whip yo butts this yeahr, ya heah!

SPECIAL QUESTION FOR BIG BROTHER LOU OR LB BUDDY: Based on this article, what would happen if Clapton moved to Texas and started coaching football?

UPDATE: Okay, so it was Burt Reynolds who gored that guy---it's Sunday morning, and my mind is supposed to be more elevated, right?

Timlin, Varitek and the boys decide to play a little prank on the sell out ex-Wookie and his new Yankee buddies by dropping the pickled corpse of Billy Martin into the hot tub out back. Those guys....

And yes, Sawx blogging might become a regular feature around here. The chief difficulty is that the Boston Globe sucks eggs through a straw with their obtuse registration processes. But, as a New York Times company, I try to keep it password easy by sticking with the old reliable "Maureendowdisaskankyhosebag" which seems to work fine.

***By animal rights activist I meant, of course, steroid chomping butt slapping idiot has been DH.