All the talk about signing Bryce Harper has a fundamental flaw: It makes no sense

Now and then, like every hapless lug in this world, I sneak off into my private pleasure pod, open a copy of Yankee Loco Street Stud magazine, and render myself breathless by fantasizing Bryce Harper in pinstripes. Yes, I admit it: I'm human, I have needs. And nobody - not Manny Machado or even Clayton K from LA - thrills me like the thought of a Giancarlo-Bryce-Aaron triple-decker sandwich served piping hot upon my personal home plate. Yowzer!

This week, as Harper encounters a New York destiny that's been touted publicly since his testicles dropped, we can't help but see the future of the Yankees when he steps up to bat. Last night, when he was twice plunked, my reaction was to bark, "No! We don't need him damaged!"

But the truth is, we don't need him at all. 

Studied closely, the centerfold fantasies of a Holy Trinity Outfield resemble the doddering lineups of our darkest Steinbrennerian past. Remember the days of three right-fielders, three Danny Tartabull statues, three looming designated hitters, three eventual Jesse Barfields, each on a 10-year, billion dollar deal - and nobody to roam center or move a runner. We would once again be the airplane with three wings and no propeller, the lead barge too heavy to float, and though we'd occasionally win games by 15 runs, the heart of our lineup would be more than ever clogged with strikeouts. And that's not counting the staggering geysers of money to be launched into the sky and forgotten.

Listen: I'm not in the habit of being frugal on behalf of Hal "Food Stamps" Steinbrenner. Seems to me, if all his assets were weighed on a cosmic scale, his net worth would be closer to infinity than to absolute zero. All this talk about saving on luxury taxes? It's a parlor game, a joke told on the sixteenth green. Tomorrow, Hal could sign Harper and Manny Machado, and he wouldn't even need to sell off one boot-licker from the New York Congressional delegation. That said, why spend a billion dollars on a new Jacoby Ellsbury, when you already have a perfectly good one, currently self-roasting on hot sands of Tampa?  

As much fun as it is to fantasize, I cannot see room for Harper on the Yankees next year, unless the franchise does a dangerous thing - and explodes the roster to create room. The Holy Trinity Outfield is like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. She looks good stepping out of the elevator, but you must deal with the long haul - her body odor, the constant spitting and her love of Trump. Two years from now, you'll be dreaming of somebody else. There will always be an impending free agent superstar to light our imaginations. Like everyone, I always thought Bryce Harper would someday play for the Yankees. But I hope we hold the line.