Good night, Sweet Caroline

If given the chance, I would kidnap Neil Diamond, lock him inside the Green Monster, and subject him to an endless loop of Sweet Caroline sung by a posse of drunken, clueless Pink Hatters — with kazoos.

Dammit, I hate that song. Mr. Diamond, you are the bane of my existence. That song sucked the moment it was conceived and now that virtually every member of Red Sox Nation has adopted it as their de facto anthem, it has become unbearable.

The sound of the very first note pushes me to the verge of rage. If Neil Diamond walked into the room right now I’d punch him in the face — and then I’d stuff a Red Sox hat into his mouth and pour a piss-warm, watered-down, overpriced Fenway Park beer over his head.

And, no, I haven’t considered anger management.

However, given the circumstances of the past week, this adaption of that old goat’s ditty brought a smile to my face. And, being an Orioles fan, I don’t often get a chance to smile during baseball season.

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