Collapse continuing, loss column lead at FOUR: We are witnessing a brilliant and terrifying piece of performance art

There really isn't much to say anymore. 

Last night, watching the Death Barge squander opportunities - inning after inning, runner after runner - it was like watching a bad Mickey Rourke movie, which some might say is every Mickey Rourke movie, but I'm partial to Angel Heart, due to the exquisite way the plot unravels at the end. It's as if Errorin' Boone wrote the screenplay.

Yank fans should start appreciating the sheer artistry of this collapse. We are watching the type of meltdown normally associated with Gene Mauch, or the Spanish Armada, or Britney, and it comes as the pillars of democracy are flailing like Giancarlo after a pitch in the dirt. When this is finally over - (unless, like Mickey in Angel Heart, we are dead, this is Hell, and we are condemned to  watch Michael Kay for eternity) - Armageddon will hardly faze us. Aaron Judge could walk, and it won't matter. We were embarrassed with him, we can be embarrassed without him.  

This we know:

1. If the Yankees somehow do turn this around - if, say, October 3 gets here before the sky collapses - this team won't last long. Last night, Paul O'Neill even said it. Yes, the Yankees have lost St. Paul, the last murmuring bleat of Yankee positivity. Pauly said these games, these losses, are starting to look meaningless, because the Yankees - who once measured success by championships - look to be as damned in the playoffs as, well, Mickey in Angel Heart.  (Or maybe Barfly?) 

2. Boonie continues to amaze. Last night, he went for a "gutsy statement" by playing his vets - Hicksy, Gleyber, IKF, Donaldson, etc - the horses who got him this far. Naturally, it backfired. Thus, Boone: 1) Left Domingo German in too long, compared to the Rays, who pulled their pitcher before he got lit up, 2) Let his hitters lustfully swing away, never bunting, never moving a runner (though, to be fair, the Yankees cannot bunt, they clearly never practice it, or hitting against the shift, so bunts would only fail anyway,) and 3) O, why am I doing this? Everything Boone touches turns to monkey pox. The mere sight of this poor, homeless-looking man - hunched over his postgame folding table, sniveling like a second-grade Altuve caught cheating on a math test, as he tries to Baghdad Bob another loss - is there such a thing as "tragedy porn?" 

3. If the Yankees do somehow make the postseason - praise the juju gods! - I believe El Chapo will not make the roster. And after all we've been through together, it's hard to say this, but here goes: GOOD FUCKING RIDDANCE. Chapman's incredible tattoo infection excuse can never be forgiven. It needs to be his Yankee epitaph - no encores, no plaque in Monument Park, and maybe a generation or two should pass before he sets foot in an Old-Timers Day. It's sad that Chapman lost his fastball and then his mind. But when I think of him, I'll imagine puss leaking from an ink spot and water cascading off the brim of his cap. It works as performance art. Nothing else.  

4. Last night, Andrew Benintendi went down, working his fingers as if something really bad just happened. X-rays came back negative. Today, an MRI. Even Boone, normally the Voice of Happytown, looked forlorn and abused. He said Benintendi heard something pop in his wrist. That's no good, no good at all. It probably means that Benintendi - lone positive from Brian Gettleman's wretched 2022 bundle of midseason trades - might disappear. I mean, as performance art... perfect! 

5. Last night, JP Sears pitched six innings for Oakland, yielding two earned runs. The previous night, in his MLB debut, Ken Waldichuk went 4.2 innings and gave up a run. All that's left for Gettleman's Cashman's legacy is for some ex-Yankees to become stars. Think performance art. Perfect! 

What? You came here for hope? Are you nuts? We damn well better win the next two. I can't take it...