Loss column lead down to five, and Frankie the Yankee might need a hanky

Well, well, well... here we go again. That grinding sound you hear? Not to worry. It's just the wheels falling off.

Once again, the Death Barge gave us a brief glimpse of hope, a flash of its bare breasts - just enough to make us relax and ponder the upcoming Giants-Jets Super Bowl. We foresaw New York magically christened as the City of Champions, the professional sports capital of America, with weekly parades along the Canyon of Heroes and enhanced parlays for covering the point spread. We were gonna win... something. Even the Knicks. It was gonna be great.

And now... I speet on this team. Pttuui. If we're swept today by the "Brew Crew" - a team that doesn't even wear its true name on its jersey - we could face Toronto next week with the AL East on the line, a fate we could not have fathomed back in June. Here we go again: Panic Mode - frantically churning roster slots in search of a savior, any savior, because Aaron Judge cannot hit three home runs per game. 

I'm getting tired of watching Aaron Boone, beaten and abused, try to find joy in another gruesome night. He needs to punch the table again - or simply tell his YES masters to fuck off, that's he got nothing to say, tonight's post-game show starring Bagdad Bob is canceled, and it's time for a few harsh screams in a closed clubhouse. 

But Boone won't miss a show. That's what he's there for - the long-faced presser with Suzyn and Meredith, in which he explains-away another sorry outcome.   

Here's a question: Why should the Yankees expect Judge to see any decent pitches, when the man behind him - his protector, supposedly - is fitted nightly for the Golden Sombrero? Do the Yankees have a strategy for Giancarlo Stanton? I guess so. And here it is: Wait. That's all. Wait. 

Boone figures Stanton will probably get hot - there's a chance he's done, but the odds are, if they just keep running him out there, day after day, strikeout after strikeout, sombrero after sombrero, he'll start hitting. It might take a week. It's been practically two months. His batting average is down to .212. He homered twice against Tampa last week, made us think he was back - prompting Boston to pitch to him - haha. But Milwaukee isn't biting and now this: five Ks eight at-bats. And our game plan? Wait. 

Meanwhile, brace yourselves for the loss of - gasp - Frankie Montas, who might be nearing the dreaded, secret Gray/Jacoby/Pavano wing of Monument Park. The recent trade deadline is shaping up as Brian Cashman's career worst, a churning of rancid butter. Nearly every deal has gone south. All that's left is for Harrison Bader to tweak a gonad, or JP Sears to throw a no-hitter. Right now, the best deal we made might turn out to be Joey Gallo for "World" Beeter, down at Double A. 

Montas is having an MRI on his pitching shoulder. We've seen that movie before. The Yankees are already pooh-poohing it - just a precaution, he won't miss a start! - but don't mind the strange popping sounds. It's just the lug nuts, falling into the ditch, as the carriage begins to list.