On MRI Day, the Yankiverse seethes over and bewails the ghastly schemes of Destiny

Sunday, as everyone knows, the Death Barge dispatched Gerrit Cole and Aaron Judge to get MRIs on various barking body parts - signaling the chance that 2024 will be the biggest bed-crapping year in modern history.

Seriously, look around. We're heading for a Presidential race that is, in essence, a matchup between Dorian Gray and Mr. Hyde. Half the country is parched in drought, and half is underwater. Upstate NY just experienced a North Carolina winter. Taylor Swift has a cough. Al Pacino couldn't even read the Oscar nominees list. Who the fuck is this Finneas guy? Who moved the remote? Where is my TV Guide? Is the cafeteria serving creamed corn again?    

Seriously, why wouldn't we expect the '24 Yankees to fall apart like a Boeing 747 over Anchorage? Somehow, they assembled a roster of broken glass, concocted by a GM who hasn't made a winning trade since Covid arrived, from an owner who simply wants to breed horses and sip Scotch at the club, with a Venus de Milo pitching staff and a batting order with more bats in twilight than the entire Twilight movie trifecta. And you expect the Yankees to win? Dear God, why?

Oh, and here's the kicker: We're supposed to believe what the Yankees say? As if they ever tell the truth about anything? When they assure us that all is well, that Cole's scan is merely "a precaution" and Judge will be ready, though he might miss opening day? Oh, of course, lah-tee-dah...

You know what else might be missing opening day? 

Hope. 

By now, the notion that the Yankees could have signed Blake Snell or Jordan Montgomery - boosting their rotation - is a Vaudeville punch line. Either pitcher looked like the missing link between a pennant contender and 4th place gristle. The Yankees never opened their wallet, never budged. It wasn't the money. It was the principle of it all, old chum, t'wouldn't be sporting to look so, well, desperate.  

So, now, we're supposed to think the Yankees can trade more prospects, more seed corn for - um - Dylan Cease? Dear God, his name itself has become a Yankee fan mantra: "DYLAN...? CEASE!"

People, get underground. We're riding directly into the storm. Can somebody check  Al Pacino's First Alert batteries? It's getting dark. And - gulp - it's mid-March.