In SUPER YES-MO, we are watching the world collapse

Every day, a new capillary bursts. It's like living in Bill O'Reilly's nose. Last night brought the sick revelation that Austin Jackson is a better CF than the star swoosh- machine we traded him for, which means the two most meaningful prospects our farm system developed in the last 10 years - Ian Kennedy and Jackson - were jetisoned in a trade. Ahh, but that's another Yankeetorial on a day when we all have enough blessed gin in our brains to stare wide-eyed into this gaping maw of hell known as the 2012 Yankees.

Where do I start? When we get decent pitching, we lose 1-0. When we hit, we go down 6-5. Our best days lately come when we do neither, as long as we're playing Seattle. Oh yes, can you imagine where we'd be if not for the no-name-no-hope Seattlittes? We keep assuring ourselves that all is OK: We're still eight up, no, seven up, no, six up, etc -- but we're living on the bubble of a weak AL East. Toronto and Boston are utterly putrid (though amazingly, the Redsocks remain unburied), Baltimore remains a decade away, and Tampa isn't Tampa without Evan Longoria (Uh-oh, who is back.)

Boink. There goes another capillary. It happens whenever Curtis Granderson comes up. Every Grandy Man at bat would qualify as the official Yankees Seven Minutes of Terror, except he's usually done in less than three. It's simple: The Grandy Man fans; oh, the Grandy Man fans. He looks like the crumbcake Detroit jetisoned, the one who couldn't adjust to lefties and who swang for the fences. He's killing us. His fielding has gone south. I don't remember the base he stole. Was George W. Bush President? This isn't a mid-season slump. He's pushing 140 strikeouts on the year. That's not a bad month. That's Matt Nokes. That's a Juan Samuel career-ender.

Juju-wise, we shot our wad last week. We put out an International Juju Intervention and netted only three victories. That's like holding a telethon and getting one free pizza. We cannot keep our family safe and secure, which means we are New York Death. We are stuck in a bad John Travolta movie, and we can't even leave the theater. Yeesh, what are we supposed to escape to? The elections? The economy? The drought? We're watching the Yankees die in YESMO, and the only question is which will go first: Eric Chavez's legs or the polar caps?

I know what you're thinking: Gosh-o-golly, el dukie, it aint so bad. We got that there dune buggy on Mars. And the Higgs thingy. Maybe the scientists can help us. Yeah, right. We now know that time travel is impossible. Because if it were, Alphonso by now would have gone back and plugged Cashman before he made the Fanderson deal.

Boink, there goes another capillary. Gangway, brothers and sisters, this nose, she's about to blow! Somebody grab me a Kleenex.