Let's face it: In terms of inflicting pain on their fans, the Yankees cannot compare to the Giants

It's like sick, angry performance art. Or a bad Hollywood disaster flick, with the biggest sharknado always still to come. Three times, it was over, three times. The Giants had beaten Brady and Patriots. Three times. All they needed to do was hold the football. They had the game. Then they lost.

The Giants lose football games the way a golden retriever chases a tennis ball. They just cannot stop themselves.

I can't take this. I can't take this, I can't take this, I tell you: I JUST CAN'T TAKE THIS! It's like watching the 2001 World Series against Arizona - all seven games, Brosius and Tino's HRs, leading to the humpback single - boiled down into one half-hour of torture therapy.

And here's the gemstone of this magical misery tour:

For the Gints, it's business as usual.

We blew game one against the Cowboys. A loss for the ages. We only needed to run out the clock. We couldn't. Then we blew game two against Atlanta. A classic fourth quarter collapse. Then came the recent loss to New Orleans - an out-of-body finger-breaker: A face-mask penalty lets the Saints kick a field goal with no time on the clock. You can't write that ending. Nobody will buy it.

Oh, but those were warm ups. Yesterday, we sat on New England's 5 yard line with two minutes left. A touchdown wins it. A FG puts us ahead. But I knew we'd lose. Everybody did. I knew we'd settle for the FG, so Brady could whisk his team down the field, which in the NFL is like eating a slice of pizza. I knew we would lose. Everybody in the free world did. It was another perfect collapse. With luck - or smarts (beyond Jason Pierre-Paw) - the Giants could be 9-1. Instead, they're 5-5. They'll finish 8-8 and out of the playoffs. Oh yes, there are a few more disasters yet to come.

I can't take this. Nothing in the Yankiverse compares to the Giants. Chasen Shreve's September doesn't come close. The Giants have made torture-losing into an art form.

After a loss like that, you roam the house, looking for things to break. I personally have come to wretch at the image of Tom Coughlin - our coach for life - with his head tilted like a dog, the beady eyes blazing, the cheeks flushed red - as another game turns into spit. And listen: I hate myself for this. Coughlin is a good man. He won two Super Bowls. He's a Hall of Fame coach, and I should cherish him. But I cannot take this. I cannot stand his face anymore, as he oversees the end of civilization. It's too much. No more, I say! Go ahead, Mr. Rumsfeld: Waterboard me, hook me up, anything, but not another loss like these. Can we just lose 51-0? Those will be like candy. Anything but this.