Satan is pissed.

I didn't go down to Georgia.
First of all, I was kicked out of the Tampa area last winter, so if I was going to light out for the hot asphalt of Atlanta or Alpharetta, I'd have to go up to Georgia.
But nobody knows their geography these days. If they did, they'd be called the St. Petersburg Rays. That's where they play, after all.
Bitter, you ask?
Hel ... I mean, heck, yeah, I'm bitter. You'd be too if you were Evil Incarnate and you had a cush gig as the first word in a last-place team.
When that got turned around on me like Linda Blair's head, let me tell you, it burned -- for the first time in my life.
And then as soon as they lose me, they start winning? And now they're in the World Series? Please.
And that's not all of it. The reasoning behind all this madness was just pathetic. "Negative fan feedback" to my name, they called it.
Come on. Gimme a break.
Just listen to these people, drunk with nonsense like hope, optimism and fun, spouting off the sentiments that led to my, uh, firing. It's scary. And for me, that's saying something.
Here's Matt Silverman, team president, who didn't even have to sell his soul to me to get into Harvard: "If a name causes people to pause, if it somehow keeps them away from coming to the stadium, then it's something that needs investigating and that's what we'll be doing."
Yuck.
Or how about left fielder Carl Crawford, who has a reputation around the Majors as a nice guy??
"It feels like a fresh start," Crawford said when the uniforms changed colors -- still no red! -- and went to that horrible new winning name.
"It's like that feeling of going to school on the first day. You get to wear the new uniforms. It feels good. You know what they say, 'You play like you feel.' We feel good, we look good, so hopefully, we'll play good."
Dude, calm down with that "G" word. You used it four times in one sentence. I think I might hurl flames all over my keyboard.
This American League championship baseball team has simply added so much insult to these deep, personal injuries that I actually might drink a glass of ice water to forget the pain.
First of all, the one guy in their history that got me fired up, Damian Rolls (Full disclosure: He reminded me of my favorite son ... emotional moment ... tears ... a little smoke ... OK, I'm fine now) was released four years ago.
Then the team makes it to the Fall Classic with a manager (Joe Maddon), a closer (injured Troy Percival) and a bullpen coach (Bobby Ramos) who all came from the Angels!
And it gets worse.
While I was rooting for the only (former Arizona State Sun) Devil in the AL Championship Series, Boston's Dustin Pedroia, and he did his best to give my former team the hellacious beat-down it deserved, I was constantly interrupted.
But here's the real smoking deal from the guy who's in the details.
I'm stuck here in an Anytown, U.S.A., demon protection program, wearing a regular black suit, looking like an everyday schmo, and I'm supposed to root for this lovable team that went from worst to first and has the chance to take the World Series trophy to the Tampa Bay area for the first time in its 10-year history.
And I'm supposed to be happy.
Hmmm. Maybe I'll just go to Georgia instead.