Annual Drunk Blog underway, with existential delirium about Chris Carter

Ugh. Nightmare. Too many Blue Moons. Dreamed Chris Carter dies, comes back, then dies again, but he'll be back - like - tomorrow. He's like the evil father in Iron Fist, - (shitty Netflix show, don't bother) - who keeps dying and coming back, always worse than before. Two weeks ago, Carter fielded decently. But the return incarnation - the ghost of Chris Carter - drops routine throws. When he comes back next week, he'll fling bats into the dugout, run over his own teammates on the base paths. Terrifying. Zombie Chris Carter, returning from the grave, he'll wear his pants backwards. I feel sick. 

Need tomato juice. Advil. Aspirin. Hot sauce. Right now, the only thing that stands between the current Wild Card contender Yankees and the return of Evil-Zombie-Reanimated-Corpse Chris Carter is the five-inch thick Korean tenderloin hamstring of Ji-Man Choi, the newest Yankee and - dear god - the fantasy rottweiler who guards at the cosmic gate between heaven and hell. If that two-pound string of ham stretches or snaps, while Ji-Man tries to leg out a roller, we're doomed to repeat Chris Carter until the fabric of reality snaps, as well, unleashing an army of Zoilio Almontes and Andy Philipses, each of them more terrifying than ever, unstoppable, as they gather all of Scott Proctor's mitts and spikes and set fire to them at home plate, with the ghost of Stump Merrill rising from the dead to- 

That's enough. Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice. Where was I? Ji-Man Choi? Who the fuck is Ji-Man Choi. I dunno. My head hurts. This is supposed to be a blog, with news and information. Important site for spontaneous critiques. Okay, let's see what the Internet says...

Hmm. He's 26. No nickname. (Don't need one, when you're Ji-Man!) Weighs 230. Dong San High School, South Korea. Last year with the Angels, he hit .170 over 54 games. Was the king of Salt Lake City before coming up to the Majors. In seven minor league seasons, he's a career .306 hitter. In 444 games, 48 minor league homers. Bats left. When Scranton came to Syracuse early this spring, he belted one into the light towers at Your Name Here Stadium, and that's no small feat. Last one to do that in my memory was Willie Mays Aiken. 

But write this down: Ji-Man will be gone next week - his hammy snapped like a rubber band holding a 12-page - and Carter will be back, scarier than ever. Excuse me. I need a drink.