Two months have passed since you sold your soul to the devil for a chance to make it big in the Big Apple. Two months since you surrendered and voluntarily became a hostage behind enemy lines, while giving the Red Sox a steaming turd of a Christmas gift – a Big Dig-sized hole in the Fenway outfield. Two months since you messed with your own teleprompter and went Ron Burgundy on Red Sox Nation, skipping town with a smile and a wave as if to say, “F— off, Boston!” Johnny Damon, which of course in Hawaiian means a “whale’s vagina,” I think I speak for all of us when I say this: Go (expletive) yourself. I know what you’re thinking. I must not have seen the full-page ad you took out in last Wednesday’s Boston Globe. Oh, I saw it all right, and I’ll recite it from memory. “Many thanks to the great fans of New England and the city of Boston. It was a privilege and an honor.” Needless to say, your full page did nothing more than soak up massive amounts of puppy pee on kitchen floors all over New England last week. Don’t get me wrong. Although a bit overused in world of sports, the ad was a nice gesture. And if Red Sox Nation didn’t know you as well as we do, we may have actually bought into it. But Johnny Damon the every-day-player-and-all-around-nice-guy hasn’t been heard from since the 2004 World Series. Instead, a different guy showed up at spring training last year. He was no longer just a baseball player, he was an author, an MTV “Cribs” alum, a walking Puma billboard, and a wannabe celebrity. We embraced Johnny the Marketing Machine because, well