You Can Handle the Truth!

Dirt Dog: You want answers?

Fanboy: I think I'm entitled to them.

Dirt Dog: You want answers?

Fanboy: I want the truth!

Dirt Dog: You can't handle the truth!

Son, we live in a Nation that has thin walls. And those walls have to be guarded by men with big mouths. Who's gonna say it? You? You, Mr. Nomah's Better? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom.

You weep for Nomie and you curse the Media. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Nomar's death in Boston, while tragic, probably saved the team.

And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves players...You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that website. You need me on that website.

We use words like honor, code, loyalty...we use these words as the backbone to a life spent banging on this keyboard. You use 'em as a SoSH signature line.

I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a fan who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very truth I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it! I'd rather you just said "thank you" and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a ticket in standing room only. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to!

Fanboy: Did Nomar break the code Red Sox?

Dirt Dog: (quietly) He said the things we told you he said.

Fanboy: Did Nomar break the code Red Sox?

Dirt Dog: You're goddamn right he did!!