In Final Days, Yank Players to Turn Historic Stadium into "World's Largest Spittoon"

OK... if you're catching angry vibes here, regarding our Canyon-of-Heros wash-outs, your puke-detectors are reading properly. I'm trying to work through this: Counseling. Meds. Jean-Paul Sarte books. Pamela Anderson tapes. Whatever it takes.

But today we start the most painful two weeks in Yankee history.

Sure, you could say nothing compares to the insult of 2004, watching our team fold like a cheap accordion, squandering the three-game lead against Boston.


But at least everybody then went home. (Correction: We went home; the players went on cruises.) We didn't have to attend another 10 games and cheer the criminals -- yes, criminals: some of these guys should be charged with theft of service, or trespassing on public property or, better yet, treason -- yes, goddammit, treason! -- for the one-testicled effort they gave us this year. I swear, over the next three weeks, I'm going to write a mean, evil poem about every one of these bastards (except Mariano, maybe a few others), and I hope the damn things follow them the rest of their careers.

In the 1980s, when we fell out of contention, they'd play the last in front of 15,000 afternoon drunks, and you could hear the hotdog vendors in the upper deck. This year -- because we're about to tear down a great cathedral of culture so the millionaires in the fourth inning can saunter from their luxury boxes to in-stadium leather disco -- we've got 10 full houses to go.

Sell-out crowds.


Sell-out players.


Me? I'm rooting for the Rays. I hope they win by 10, so in the late innings, the Yanks can feel an occasional droplet and think, "Hm-mm, that's funny? They didn't predict rain."

What are we going to do? Put on a push and suddenly start winning meaningless games? Pad our numbers for next year's contracts?

Send more Pamela tapes. These next two weeks are gonna suck.

Pttuii.