They don’t make television and movie comedies like they used to. When you’re connected to Boston sports fans through every pipeline of new media, however, you don’t need a sign reminding you to giggle or guffaw.

It’s like Caddyshack multiplied by Animal House filtered through Cheers, every fun-loving day. If you aren’t ROFL, LYAO, either it’s your own fault for not paying attention, or you’ve stuck the tip of your toes deep enough into reality to realize that some of us are laughing at you and not with you.

June and July have a well-deserved reputation as a dead season in sports. Clearly the past 10 days have been the polar opposite of that here in New England, and the fallout from it has reinforced our reputation as the most reactionary and perhaps obnoxious consumers on the planet.

And for the purposes of this discussion, let’s set aside Aaron Hernandez, please, along with the actual (we think) women of Planet Twitter who were lamenting murder charges against the ex-Patriot because he is, and I quote, “so hot.” Their lost-cause lunacy speaks for itself.

I’m more interested in the psychology of the folks who nearly necessitated a closing of the Tobin Bridge with the collective kneejerk to the Celtics and Bruins’ midsummer wheeling and dealing.

First, let’s track the Celtics’ week-and-a-half-that-was though news feeds attributed to the fellowship of the miserable. Again, I’m paraphrasing, not endorsing.

Doc Rivers is a disloyal jerk who will share a room with Ray Allen in that special section of hell.

Trade KG and The Truth? Is Danny Ainge on drugs? That’s it. I just became a Nets fan.

Well, wait a minute. Rajon Rondo is still on the payroll. Jeff Green is on his way to becoming an all-star. Avery Bradley doesn’t stink out loud. Maybe if they find a veteran coach who can massage all the young egos, these guys won’t fall completely off the face of the earth.

Oh, great, now they hired a 36-year-old college coach. It’s Rick Pitino all over again. Well, at least there are lottery picks in our future.

Meanwhile, from the camp that prefers ice in their drink …

The Bruins are right there, baby. Two finals in three years. Let’s not blow this thing up. Punch those one or two missing pieces into the puzzle and it’s all over but the ceremonial sipping of champagne from the Cup.

Vincent Lecavalier is available, after all. And Daniel Alfredsson is almost an entire year younger than Jaromir Jagr, so what the heck.

Wait, Lecavalier signed with whom? And Alfredsson went where? Is Peter Chiarelli on vacation in Bora Bora or something?

They traded … Tyler Seguin? Say again? No, he’s too talented/dreamy to give up on yet. I know Jean Ratelle scored more goals in this year’s playoffs than he did, and I understand that his partying makes Gronk look like a lost Tebow brother, but the dude was the No. 2 pick in the entire draft and he’s only been old enough to legally drink like a frat boy for five months!

Now Nathan Horton is gone. Well, there it is. I’ve always wanted to be a Blue Jackets fan. And Andrew Ference is off to Edmonton, where they spell defense with a ‘C.’ I give that move a ‘D.’

The sky is falling. The apocalypse is nigh. It’s all over but the zombie attack.

Wait, you mean that rat Iginla really is going to be a Bruin this time? At least we got Loui Eriksson out of the Seguin deal. And look at all that salary cap space. Boston strong, baby!

I have to laugh at these people because it beats crying.

More pathetic lot: Boston sports fans in the 1990s, or Boston sports fans since 2002? It’s a tough call.

We were better people to have a beer with during the Clinton, Pitino, Carroll, Burns and Williams administrations, for certain. Since the moment Adam Vinatieri split the uprights and Lonie Paxton fell to the ground and made turf angels, our sense of entitlement and our unwillingness to accept being consistently good have been insufferable.

The Celtics are going to trade Rondo, too, so deal with it. They’ve chosen to start over with the dynamic, exceptional, and yes, young Brad Stevens and a retooled roster. In the long term, it’s absolutely a better idea than going 42-40 as AARP’s favorite franchise with a Van Gundy sibling at the helm.

As for the Bruins, they unloaded a guy whose impact on the dressing room fell somewhere on the spectrum between headache and cancer. Sometimes when you’re a fan you have to take a deep breath and trust the guys who are paid to gauge and diagnose such things. When they’ve taken you to the promised land once and to within sniffing distance of the pearly gates a second time in a 24-month span, they’ve earned that benefit.

Professional sports are not a game for the sympathetic or nostalgic. Stand pat, even when you’re the second or third or fourth-best team in the league, and you will be trampled under foot. The Patriots have taught us that time and time again by not getting excessively hooked on Samuel, Law, Vrabel, Seymour, Welker, Woodhead, fill in the blank.

You don’t have to like it, but say a serenity prayer and have a little faith. It suits you better than all this shouting and hand-wringing.

And if all else fails, hey, the Sox are on pace to win 99 games and run away with the American League East.

Enjoy it before they trade Jacoby Ellsbury and you lose your mind.

Kalle Oakes is a staff columnist. His email is [email protected] Follow him on Twitter @Oaksie72.

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