It was a hot mid-July day in Southington, Georgia. Well actually, it was more than hot, it was, �hot like the last time I burned my hand on the stove,� as the locals would say. Anyway, young Shirley Jones was heading out for her late afternoon stroll. �Y�all, I�m leavin�� she yelled, right after the door had slammed behind her. No one actually heard her, given that, well, you know, the door was shut. But we digress.
So Shirley, she was walking down the road- the road, not the sidewalk- and all of a sudden it started to rain. Just like that. And this was no drizzle, this was a downpour- complete with thunder and lightning. Now Shirley, being such a smart, clever girl, decided to walk off the road and sit under the nearest tree. Not just any tree, mind you, but the single tallest tree in all of Southington, and probably all of Georgia. Talking to no one in particular, Shirley remarked, �Y�all, I�m not getting� wet! Cool beans!�
Since the tree was the �tallest tree in the whole dang field,� it naturally attracted lightning. Of course Shirley, like all perky little southern girls, got up and continued her stroll. �My, I feel scorchin� today. Must be them lightnin� strokes. I reckon I oughter continue this here stroll.� Brilliant ol� gal, isn�t she?
Anyway, Shirley made her happy, wet way down the middle of the road in the middle of nowhere in the south. Commenting on the scenery, Shirley said, �Y�all, look at them there crops. Cool beans!� Literally. A beautiful landscape. After several hundred feet of corn fields, Shirley came across a bridge. She read, �Bridge work ahead. Detour.�
�Detour? Well, whaddya know. I never reckoned they�d do tours of this here bridge!� So then Shirley stepped right over those orange cones and onto the bridge. �Where�s my tour guide?� she contemplated. Well actually, they don�t contemplate down there in the south, so let�s just say she thought. Then again, they don�t exactly think either. Never mind. Thoroughly engrossed in her deep contemplation, Shirley, our smart little Georgia peach, walked right off that there bridge. �Y�all, I�m fallin�!� Brilliant, Shirley. Just brilliant.
Shirley thrashed around for a loooong few minutes (�Y�ALL! I CAN�T SWIM!�). After awhile, the surrounding fish heard, �Y�all, I can�t breathe neither!� Insert awkward silence. �COOL BEANS! I�m a-drownin�!� Tragic, really. Insert yet another awkward silence. Then along came Mr. Shark. You never know what you�ll find in those southern rivers these days, do you? Gobble, chew, swallow. Um�how sad. Insert celebratory noise- hip hip hooray! No honestly- we�re all heart broken. Mr. Shark smacked his lips, �Tastes like peach!�
You might think this is the perfect spot for this story to end. After all, Shirley just got eaten by a shark. But no, we wouldn�t do that to you. I mean really, aren�t there enough books that end with the main character dying nowadays? No, we�re just getting started. Shirley might be dead, yes, but this story sure ain�t!
Something funny was going on with the partially digested remains of Shirley in the shark�s stomach (You could call her �chyme�- only with a southern accent, of course). Anyway, all of a sudden, the �chyme� started to, for lack of a better verb, diffuse through the shark�s stomach lining, it�s blood vessels, and then its skin. That�s right, chyme really flies. So now Shirley, the flying chyme, was heading away from the shark, away from Southington, and away from Georgia altogether. It was heading up north- to Boston.
But why? What business did the chyme, formerly known as Shirley, have flying, flying to Boston, of all places. Well, you�ll soon find out. Quite soon actually. Like right now. The Shirley-chyme was flying to Boston so that Shirley could be reincarnated. This makes no sense, I know, just bear with me here. Shirley was about to be reincarnated as (drum roll, please)�Carl Everett. Insert bloodcurdling scream.
Now our good friend (er, well, not really) Carl Everett was playing a baseball game (applause). A wonderful game�for the Red Sox- haters. The score was pi to zero. Bottom of the ninth, of course. Suddenly, �Y�all! Where am I? I need my dawg.� The game halted, shall we say. Hundreds of heads turned. �There goes Carl again,� someone remarked, �I swear he�s a multiple.�
So the season went on, and the Red Sox kept losing, and sooner or later, it was the end of September, and there was a week left until the playoffs. Those Red Sox, with the help of Carl/Shirley and his/her 78 errors (not to mention that .0000001 batting average) were in last place. That�s right, they were BEHIND the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. An interesting predicament. So interesting, in fact, that it inspired what would soon be known as the Great Red Sox Conspiracy.
Let me start out by saying that the majority of Boston Red Sox fans are a little�weird. And who could blame them. I mean really, when your favorite baseball team hasn�t won a World Series in 80 years, it starts to get to you. Anyway, this latest season of failure had pushed them over the edge, once and for all. They weren�t going to sit back and watch their team finish in last place. Something had to be done.
And it was. The Red Sox fans formed a Committee. The would meet every Sunday at the house of the last living Red Sox fan who was actually alive when the Red Sox last won the World Series, way back in 1918. You might think that there would be more of those people, given that 1918 was still only 84 years ago, but mysteriously, there was only one left. The only problem was, this guy, his name was Eddie Jones (oh, the connections�), had Alzheimer�s Disease, so he didn�t actually remember the Red Sox winning anything. Eddie�s illness hadn�t progressed quite enough, however, for him not to be able to name his Committee. In typical Red Sox fan fashion, he decided to call it �Yankees Suck�.
Now during their meetings, Eddie Jones and the Yankees Suck Committee discussed various ways in which to get their beloved Red Sox out of last place and into the World Series. But how to stage a worldwide invasion of Red Sox-ism? IF those fans didn�t have sense, at least they had money. These-er-rapid fans bribed every influential world leader and sent out computer and real viruses. Everyone (well, almost, but we�ll discuss that later) became a possessed Red Sox fan. These were sad times, people, horrifically sad times. Worse than when Lord Voldemort- I mean You-Know-Who �came to power.
Suddenly, by this evil twist of fate, the Red Sox started winning. Not by skill, of course. No- that would never happen. The possessed Red Sox fans which had infected the world made sure they won. And good ol� Eddie Jones made sure to go to every game. Not that he remembered any of them, but still. We digress.
Even though they won every game of the last week of the season, that obviously wasn�t enough for them to make the playoffs. I mean come on, they were 15-147. But thanks to the Yankees Suck Committee, they won the division. We�re not sure how, but our sources tell us Derek Jeter came down with a serious case of food poisoning after eating some spaghetti that had been left on his doorstep. Hmm.
So the playoffs began, depressingly, with the Red Sox playing the Mariners and the Cleveland Indians playing the Oakland Athletics. In the National League, there were the Cardinals vs. the Giants and the Expos vs. the Cubs. In a situation eerily similar to the one that took place in Boston, the Expos had made the playoffs thanks to a sudden and uncalled-for turnaround with a week left to the season. Only this time, they had help from the Contraction Sucks Committee.
Random digression: I know that Shirley Jones is supposedly the character around which this story is based, and that she hasn�t been mentioned in exactly six paragraphs. But be patient. Shirley will return. Or at least Carl will. Then again, you never know- the way this plot is going, neither Shirley nor Carl might not ever be mentioned again. I think that sentence had about three double negatives in it. I told you this digression was random.
The postseason continued, and the world- except for Boston and the 200 or so Expos fans in Montreal- could have cared less. I mean really, what�s a postseason if the Yankees aren�t in it? We repeat, these were sad times.
So by this evil twist of fate (and plot), the World Series arrived and it was the Red Sox vs. the Expos. For once, the World Series brought the television networks no money. Game one, game two, game three, no one cared. I mean, who wants to watch a game where none of the players show a hint of skill? Ok, the Red Sox fans, but that is an insignificant detail. Really.
Anyway, the Sox were leading the series three games to none. The Yankees Suck Committee and Eddie Jones were having a field day. Literally. Game four arrived in all its crispy goodness. Er, badness. Eddie and co. were uncannily enthusiastic. The Red Sox actually had a chance of winning the World Series for the first time in 84 years. Or so they thought. The few Expos fans were still depressed. Their team still had no chance. Or so they thought.
Bottom of the ninth. The Red Sox were winning, 12-0 (bad mental image). There were two outs, and two strikes on the poor helpless Montreal batter standing at the plate. Suddenly, of all things, he got a hit. A hit! Insert bloodcurdling southern scream. Eddie Jones began hyperventilating. The Red Sox fans broke into chants of �Yankees suck!� Then, the Expos got another hit. A double. They scored a run. Another hit. Another run. The �Yankees suck!� refrain continued from the Red Sox fans, only now there was a hint of paranoia in their voices.
The Montreal onslaught continued. It was now 12-9 Boston. The bases were loaded. The �Yankees suck!� chants sounded, well, rabid. Suddenly, the ball was hit deep to centerfield! But not quite deep enough! Carl Everett was standing there, glove raised, ready to make the catch that would finally end 84 years of suffering. Surely, he�d make the catch. Surely.
Oh, that�s right. Shirley. We almost forgot.
Without a doubt, Carl Everett would have caught that ball. The same cannot be said, however, for Shirley Jones. Since Carl is, of course, Shirley reincarnated, naturally, he did not make the catch. And that would be putting it lightly. Not only did he not make the catch, the ball bounced off his head and into the seats for a grand slam. Expos win, 13-12.
Eddie Jones had a heart attack. Scratch that. Eddie Jones blew up. You know Red Sox fans these days. Obsessive and weird. Not that we can talk.
Back to the World Series. Their miraculous game four comeback had given the Montreal Expos a moment of revelation, so to speak. For a brief few days, they learned how to win (gasp!). With Eddie Jones� death and the disbanding of the Yankees Suck Committee, the Red Sox returned to their typical losing ways. By that, I mean they lost the World Series. But what else is new?
So now Carl/Shirley was walking dejectedly home, when he/she had a spark of d�j� vu. �Y�ALL! It�s de tour!� You�d think Curley (we�ll call him/her that from now on) had learned some things, but no- they don�t learn either down there in the South� �Let�s go a-tourin�! Cool beans!�
If you�ve paid any attention to this story so far, you probably have a pretty good idea of what�s going to happen next. And no, it doesn�t involve Curley walking safely across the bridge.
As fate would have it, Curley, well, Curley fell of the bridge and into the river. He/she (Can I please just say �it�?) thrashed around for a few more loooong minutes (�Y�ALL! HAVE I BEEN HERE BEFORE?�), slowly realized that he/she was drowing, then, anti-climatically, he/she drowned. Then along came Mr. Shark. Again. Only this time, he was wearing a Yankees hat.