Let it rain, let it rain, let it wash this miserable team into the sea

Folks who remember the great Yankee teams of the late 1990s also know a dirty little secret: They came from the catastrophic 14-year Bronx Barf, a near Biblical exodus that bottomed out in 1990. The following year, we drafted first - blew it on Brien Taylor - but in 1992, we picked sixth and found Derek Jeter.

For about five years, the Yankees were universally derided as the worst-run franchise in pro sports.

Folks, here we go again.

And sadly, I say... sooner, the better!

Yep, let it rain. Let the winds blow down this abomination. Let the seas rise, the facades fall, and let the seats of what they call "Yankee Stadium" be filled by the ghosts of Brien Taylor. Every aspect of the 2016 Yankees - from Lonn Trost's entitled view of working fans, to the sorry inability of hitters to bunt against an over-shift - smacks of an institution in need of an overhaul, if not a revolution. Frankly, the only way to change this diseased marriage of nepotism and cronyism is to stack the losses like chord wood and flick a match. Bring it on.

Let's play Chase Headley until his contract ends in 2060. Let's bring up Nick Swisher - sell a few extra tickets; it's all about the Tubmans, right? - and watch him bat .202. Let's just lose until the Steinbrenner family has to grow beards and move to an armed fortress outside of Topeka, having pissed away whatever legacy the team once held. Tonight we're gonna party like it's 1989.

I hate to be this way. I feel like a traitor to the team I have rooted for, prayed for - lived for - since 1960. But I've had enough. This morning, several Yankee blogs are pondering the lineup tweaks we can make to climb out of this rat hole: Bench Headley, bring up Judge, pay for Ellsbury's sex change, blah blah blah. Fuck that. This team doesn't need a tweak. It needs a nuclear bomb. And the worst thing that could happen is a few of our geriatrics get hot, we rise to .500 and then - come the trade deadline - pull in another Alphonso Soriano, in pursuit of that horrible fake carrot - the final Wild Card slot - which we chase into mid-August. Then, next year, we do the whole damn thing over again.

Nope. Not me. I can't take it. Folks, we are trapped in the movie Groundhog Year. Our ownership lives a delusion: The Yankees never have to rebuild, they just magically contend every year, and they don't even need to spend on premier talent, like Yoan Moncada. (YOOOOOOAN MONCADA... SLOOOOOOOOOOOWLY I TURNED...). And what do we get? A .500 mediocrity, which technically pretends to still be in a race.

Folks, we're the baseball equivalent of Ted Cruz.

Nope. Not me. Let it rain. Let the waters rise.

I am now officially rooting against the Yankees. Bring on the apocalypse. Bring on the chaos.

I am become death, destroyer of Yankee worlds.

No. Even worse. I am become Brien Taylor.