The weirdness of trusting Cashman

Strange times. Yesterday, the Yankees made two certifiably crappy trades, dealing MLB-ready prospects for dirt league lottery picks - or as old Rumsfeld would put it, "known unknowns" for "unknown unknowns" - and here's the crazy part: I'm okay with it. No... I endorse it!

Yes, I'm happy. I say, "O, fiddle-dee-dee! Cue the sun! That's China Town, Jake!" 

No, I haven't chewed through my bindings. I haven't quit the meds, and this not me texting from a traffic circle, hurtling naked in my car at Judge Jeanine speeds. I'm pleased - yes, happy, happy, happy! - watching the goldfish bowl, while Mr. Cashman makes his deals. He's doing a wonderful job, Mr. Cashman is. Wait? Did I say that already? No? Well, he's doing a wonderful job, Mr. Cashman is. Oh, now I am being silly! It's just that - well - in this newly giddy Yankiverse, Mr. Cashman makes the deals, and I endorse them from my IT IS HIGH tuffet, eating my curds and whey. Everything is - as the kids say - "groovy." Why, the other day, we traded solid Nick Rumbelow for a teenager named "Then," and I didn't go Abbott & Costello and shout, "Then WHAT?" No, I said, "What a fine trade, and what a kind and wonderful fellow is this Brian Cashman; I wonder... will he not be inducted into Cooperstown someday?"

Yes, I'm declawed. I'm without bile or bite. This Thanksgiving, we will gather around the turkey and give thanks to Mr. Cashman for his bountiful harvest of Yankee optimism. Every week is Hope Week. All is going as planned. Everybody knows that the Yankees' farm system is such a deep wellspring of talent that Mr. Cashman must deal off players - like a nuke plant releasing steam - to save us from losing them in the Rule 5 draft. It's smart, it's sassy, it's Mr. Cashman! once again, outsmarting those Mariners and Marlins. I have entered a Yankycodone delirium, where everybody trusts Mr. Cashman and it is... um... have I said that Mr. Cashman is doing a wonderful job?

Comrades, this is strange territory - trusting the Yankee front office. It's like strapping on the new jet pack to fly over the volcano. Everything is fine. We came within a game - hell, within a pitch here and there - of the World Series, and frankly, we gave the Astros a tougher row than the Dodgers did. We have three of the game's rising sluggers - Judge, Sanchez, Bird - plus a Cy Young candidate named Severino, and forget the Core 4; once Glyber and Clint arrive, we could have the Big Six or Magnificent Seven. Yesterday, Mr. Cashman made the necessary deals to protect six roster slots, a great job he is doing, Mr. Cashman is.

Strange times, all around. Every day, some male icon of morality turns out to be a masturbatory creep, and while some crumble from the public humiliation, others redefine hypocrisy with their rage-filled sanctimonious denials. The skies are filled with jet trail penises, Lil Peep is dead, and I sit here, drunken in my newly found trust of Mister Cashman. Have I told you that he is doing a wonderful job?