It's official: This is a West Coast Swing from Hell

It's time, Katie: Bar the door, smash the dishes, toss the rooms, unplug the TV, delete all signs of life, and then burrow deep into the cellar, into the coal bin,  covering yourself in six inches of ash, with the loaded Luger square in your mouth. Get comfy. We'll be here six more nights. And if you hear voices outside, don't answer. Shhhh. It's You Know Who.

We play three in LA, then three in Seattle. Brace yourselves, everybody: 

We will lose at least four. We could even get swept... or Ryan McBroomed. 

It's here, folks: the late summer, doomsday, reality check that each of us secretly knew was coming, but nobody wanted to acknowledge. Let me describe our predicament in clinical, cold-hard science: The mind flayer has slipped through the inter-dimensional porthole from the upside-down world, he's building an army of zombie flesh-hosts, and he's coming to suck our brains with his snake-faced vacuum cleaners. We face six more nights on this west coast terror-scape, and - frankly - right now, I'm rooting for the earthquake, that Richter Scale chart-buster that puts to rest once and for all the nasty back-and-forth over why Miley Cyrus and Liam Hensworth are calling it quits. (By the way, that sweet little songbird, Miley, says she never cheated on the brother of Thor, but I dunno. All I remember is how Tanya Tucker destroyed the last good man on earth, Glen Campbell; the tendrils of love can strangle even the mightiest brother of an Olympian diety. Ah, but that's why God gave us Access: Hollywood.) 

I could write forever about Miley and Liam, but this is supposed to be about the Yankees, right? We still face an entire week on Pacific Coast Time, with three games against baseball's best team, and three against a tomato can that still hates us for failing to outbid them on Robbie Cano. We've had the audacity to label ourselves a "fully operational Death Star." Right now, we're the S.S. Minnow with Gilligan manning the helm.

But, alas, nobody can ever accuse this blog of negativity. In fact, we're happy-go-lucky, meadowlarks of good Yankee news. And here is some: 

No matter what happens on this trip - even if we lose all nine - when we return to New Mets City, we will still lead the AL East.

Okay, back to our internal terror... 

I cannot dispel a sense that our problems run deeper than imagined. We battered Baltimore so easily - Chris Davis, ha! - that it created a false sense of our power. Once we faced an actual contender - Cleveland - we were damn lucky to work a split. Now, we've hit a buzz-saw in Oakland, and it won't get easier with the Dodgers. We don't intimidate good teams - especially when we're down 3-0 after the first inning. More and more, we find ourselves reading updates on Luis Severino and Dellin Betances - they're drinking tea on flat ground and bathing with Calgon beads! - because nothing else brings hope. I mean, seriously, are we supposed to think J.A. Happ will turn it around? He is Sonny Gray 2.0.

Here's the pickle: No returning vets will save this team, because their replacements all performed arguably better than they did. Will Luke Voit out-hit LeMahieu and Mike Ford? Nope. Given his track record, Aaron Hicks will suck for two weeks until his timing returns. And Giancarlo Stanton? I don't even want to think of him. If we could freeze him with Jacoby Ellsbury in a cryogenic lab, then thaw them out in the year 2525, (if man is still alive,) that would be fine with me. 

Six more games, three of which (including tonight) will start too late to legitimately watch without drugs. Katie, bar the door. That tap tap sound outside... it's not the cavalry. It's You Know Who. Don't answer.