The Yankees are having an off-millennium, and - lo and behold! - the 2015 team might be the sorriest yet

Last night, John Sterling watched his home burn to the ground for the second time this year. No hitting, no hope, no nothing: It's Yogi Vu, all over again. When the smoke cleared, The Master droned, "BallgameoverClevelandwins" in a robot voice that sounded like a talking doll left for a month on an Arizona driveway. All he could say was, "Isn't it amazing? It's... amazing... amazing... amazing!" Hell with that. It's not amazing. It's pathetic.

Last night, Suzyn - Lady McDeath - raged through the Clubhouse Report, openly questioning how Joe Girardi could actually claim Yankee hitters were snapping out of their funks. "IT BETTER START TOMORROW!" she growled. When Sweeney Murti wondered how Joe could seem so upbeat, she had an answer: "THIS LOSS DIDN'T TAKE 15 INNINGS!" He noted that, at least, Brett Gardner had tried to steal a base. "OUT BY TWENTY FEET!" Suzyn yelped. That's her version of, "Isn't it amazing?"

Last night, as everyone knows by now, we fell into second, where the chase is for the miserable one-game, away field Wild Card - that diseased marketing concept, fostered by Yankee killer Bud Selig, to gin up interest in teams that deserve to be stuffed in empty jars of vaginal cream and set out with the North Korean tide. Teams like - well, it's sure looking this way - the 2015 Yankee house of cards.

Should this be my new image?

We have lost five in a row. We will lose tonight. Is there any doubt? Soon, we will go to Toronto, where the spanking could be permanent. Of course, our hitters eventually will snap out of it. They can't suck forever. Trouble is, that's when our pitching will collapse, because that's how things work on ghost ship cruises to Hell. One leak here, another leak there. This week, we even tried home juju, but all we saw is what happens when you run electricity through a dead frog. It leaps off the table, but it doesn't croak. It's already croaked.

Right now, I'm wondering if the most humane outcome would be for Toronto to dispatch the Yankees quickly, rather than stretch things out, like a cat playing with its food. Just beat us hard, beat us early, beat us by six to eight runs, and free us - the working fans - from trying to swim through life with this anvil of a team on our backs. There are better things to do in September than to be sitting on a couch, pulling this deer tick of a franchise off our butts.

In Seattle, Jesus Montero is tearing the cover off the ball. In Pittsburgh, Francisco Cervelli is still hitting .300. In Toronto, Russell Martin - Hal's original sin - is a team leader. We have the twins of collapse - Ellsbury and Gardner - delivering 10 outs per game. And Rob Refsnyder - lost in the shadow of the great Stephen Drew - sits in Scranton, another demoralized soul in a crap-filled millennium. Wow. The Master's house is burning down. Anybody bring hot dogs?