The Three Stooges bring about the most humiliating, frustrating and painful loss since 2004

After last night's game, I couldn't sleep. Too angry. Too frustrated. If I owned a nuclear bomb, I would have driven to New York and blown up the city. That's how mad I was. (Note to world: Never give me control of a nuclear bomb.) Finally, I drifted off to Cougar Town, clutching one thin tendril of Yankee hope:

Somehow, over the winter, the Yankees get rid The Three Stooges: Alex Rodriguez, Nick Swisher and Curtis Granderson.

I know it's a fantasy. For starters, by the time we're free of A-Rod, Florida will be underwater. Plus, Brain Cashman will double-down on keeping the Grandyman, even as the trade that brought him to NYC soars into the pantheon of great historical front office disasters. Only Nick Swisher is has his ticket punched. He wants the big money. And good for him!  Today, there are two certainties in the Yankiverse: We won't hit with runners in scoring position, and Swish will play somewhere else next season. So long, it's been good ta know ya!

I can't take this any more.

I hate this team.

I really, truly, to the pit of my soul, cannot stand what this team represents, what it has become.

Every game is a microcosm of the 2004 collapse. We load the bases, then - poof. 

I cannot even celebrate a Yankee home run, because of the implications: It will merely re-establish in that hitter's mind the excitement and self-gratification of hitting home runs. Thus, he'll swing for the fences more. Last night, with Brett Gardner on second base, even Russell Martin was taking his upper-deck-shot cuts - and the announcers noticed it. All he needed was a hit, and Martin - who is not a home run hitter - was swinging out of his shoes.

What is it with New York that makes these guys homer-happy? We saw it with Giambi. We see it with Teixiera. And now, Grandy has become Jack Cust. He's one of baseball's fastest players, and he pisses away the tool.  He's one of baseball's smartest players, and he's too stupid to adjust. He just chases and chases and chases... opposing scouts must laugh watching the tapes.

What is it? Is it the new bandbox stadium, which never should have been built?

Is it the fawning fan base, makes players into rock stars and leaves an embarrassing number of empty seats near the field? (By the way, this is a huge scandal. These empty blue seats signify something horribly wrong with the Yankees; I intend to expound on it much more. It is a malignant cancer.) 
 
Here's a prediction: We resign Ichiro for gobs of money, then he turns into Andruw Jones - 20 HRs and .212.

And then - oh yes - there is Alex. Poor old Alex. It hurts to see him. After last night, I hope Girardi sits him the rest of the series and plays Eric Chavez. Don't even pinch hit him. It's too painful to watch. But when they show Alex on the bench, he's animated, smiling, talking. It means one of two things: He's either faking it for the camera - which is sooooooooo sad -  or he's actually much happier to not be playing.

(By the way, I could almost add Robbie Cano to this rant. He has disgraced himself this last week, but historically, he came through in October.)

Now Jeet's gone. Last night, as I was pacing, thinking of a direct route to New York City and where I would place my atom bomb,  I thought how some teams rally when they lose a great player. They come together, play harder and win.

Then I dismissed the thought. We have the Three Stooges.