Tonight, unleash the Crackin': It's time for an International Juju Intervention

Friends! Enemies! Believers! Doubters! Hot supermodels! Grotesque barnyard-faced wearers of excessive make-up! Assorted denizens of the Yankiverse, (you know who you are!):

IT'S ON!

Dash naked through the streets, drunk-dial ex-lovers, rent sound trucks, send emails, tack these words to utility poles, make the world know:

TONIGHT, THE YANKIVERSE SHALL FOCUS ITS COLLECTIVE JUJU POWERS INTO THE GAME OF BASEBALL AND BEGIN RESTORING THE YANKEES TO THEIR RIGHTFUL PERCH ATOP THE AMERICAN LEAGUE EAST.

TONIGHT... DAMMIT... TONIGHT... DAMMIT... TONIGHT... 

We've waited almost the entire season, marshaled our emissions, built up vast reservoirs of game juju until - OMG, it felt like we were hauling two 50-pound water balloons between our legs - but tonight, gyaddammit tonight, we're gonna bring bloody Juju Hell unto the pork-faced pygmy, Buck Showalter, and his pussyfooted band of pussyfoots, the Voldemort Orioles. Tonight, dammit, tonight!

At 7:21 p.m. - (the "21" will honor the great Paul O'Neill) - each of us - I'M TALKING TO YOU, PARDNER -  must confront our television, radio, computer, laptop, iPad, phone, electronic devise or the nearest horizon - however you do it, that's your business, and I don't need to know - and project all your strength, energy, knowledge, spirit, soul, vigor, psyche, vim, vitality, emotion and fricking life force - alias, your juju - into the New York Yankees. This may temporarily leave you as an incoherent, stupefied shell, so it's wise to have a spotter. Or line the floor with mattresses. We don't want any Hilary Clintons hitting the marble table.

Listen: Over the last two years, we have four times roused slumbering Yankee lineups into splurges of victory, and - trust me, here - this is about as dead a lineup as you can field without chanting the names Brent Lillibridge and Travis Ishikawa. It is time for us to retake the 2014 season. Without a wave of juju, the Yankees have no hope.

But we will not go down without a fight.

Keep in mind that:

1. This does not mean that at precisely 7:21 p.m., some gigantic hand-of-God miracle will happen. (But if it does, I want credit!) Generally, it takes time for the International Juju God bureaucracy, located over Argentina, to notice and process our demands. That can be frustrating. I'm not saying these gods are incompetent, but there is a reason why they no longer control hurricanes and growing seasons and have been relegated to the sports desk. Nevertheless, they will read our petitions and - hopefully - take action.

2. It's critical that all Yankee fans take part. Rally grandma in the home. Position the jolly-jumper into place. Call radio talk show hosts and tell them to shut the f--k up about Obama and get out the real word. Fortunately, Yankee owner Randy Levine - in the winter of 2009-10 - toured China and set up secret clone factory farms, where juju is harvested for just this kind of event. Tonight, we will tap into this vast international juju reservoir. Frankly, we've wondered whether it was wise to trust the Chinese, who might be inclined to use the technology for ping pong. Tonight, we'll learn.

3. Do NOT bother wearing Yankee swag, such as t-shirts or ball caps. Good grief, your TV can't see you! Your TV won't care. Don't be a moron. Think about what you're doing! (On second thought, don't.) Wear comfortable shoes and loose fitting garments, such as a track suit or briefs. At times, you'll find your body vibrating at a super-sonic rate, as if you having a heart-attack or stroke. Go with it, baby, go with it! Just keep pouring whatever you've got into the tube. Dammit, people, this is the equivalent of Tino Martinez coming to the plate with two outs in the ninth inning against the Arizona Diamondbacks. We need to make something happen. This is no time to worry about perspiration marks on the carpeting.

4. At 7:21 p.m., stand in front of the TV and make yourself known to the cosmos. Get off the couch. Yell at the cosmos. Scream at the cosmos. Clap your hands at the cosmos. Lapdance for the cosmos. Seduce it. Praise it. Condemn it. Make the cosmos your personal bitch. And don't stop whipping the cosmos when the clock hits 7:22 p.m. That cosmos has screwed us all season, and we need to keep nonstop pressure on it, until the Voldemore team cracks like the shell of a peanut. We need to win three games, and the cosmos needs to know who is boss. It starts tonight.

Friends, let's not sugarcoat the reality here...

It's been a tough year, a hell year. There were times when the writings on this blog have not been kind - not to the Yankees, not to God, and worst of all, not to each other. We have bickered, we have fought, we have doubted ourselves. That's because we care - more than anybody else in the Yankiverse. That's right. It was never talent or brains or nothing... just that we care.

We don't care how stupid we look, how ridiculous we act, how absurd our plans appear to all those who consider themselves rational and reasonable.

Screw rational and reasonable.

Rational and reasonable get you third place.

Tonight, we will do what no other blog, church, corporation, private club, government agency or institution on this gassy, watery and rocky sinkhole of a planet can do...

My friends...

TONIGHT WE WILL SAVE THE YANKEE SEASON.