Jose Veras and Edwar Ramirez are like cholesterol. There is the good. And there is the bad.
Last night, Jose's face said everything: He looked like Lucille Ball standing over a conveyor belt full of rapidly moving chocolates. Boos rained upon him. It should have been piss.
Today, he might be lights out.
How can we tell which Jose -- the Austin Powers or the Dr. Evil -- is in the bullpen?
We employ some of the planet's finest underground chemists, many on retainer to Alex Rodriguez. Some Owsley of sports must design an Instant Pitcher Pregnancy Test that will show whether Jose expects to deliver three outs... or birth another thalidomide baby of a debacle.
Maybe it requires dipping a blue stick into a pint of Jose's fresh semen, or something more radical, such as a bone marrow biopsy implanted chip. (Note: In "Rocky," Mickey made his man catch a rooster. Does the stadium have a room designed for chickens?)
We must figure out something. Now. I can't take another month of good and bad cholesterol.
Jose Veras is giving me a heart attack.
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