Damn. The also-ran Yankees have done it again.

That's it. Enough. I spit on this team. Pttuuii. 

It's football season. You can feel it. The Jersey Giants are going to the Super Bowl. Everybody says so. Undefeated and untied, thus far. 

There's no reason to follow this Yankee travesty. None.

So... why? - why am I doing this?

I mean, gimme a reason - ONE STINKING REASON - why, why, WHY I spend two hours a night - three when they play Boston - wasting time, wasting heartbeats, wasting precious moments that I could be hosing the sidewalk or polishing the silverware - all to watch this insipid, stupid, nauseous inevitability - watching the Yankees flounder and flop. Again. 

Here we go - deja vu upon deja vu  - clutching our throats and crapping our Sealy's posturepedics, unable to score one run, one stinking run, while Boston eats our boxed lunches, once again. Effing Boston.  

Nope. I can't do this. I hereby decline. No justice, no peace! I mean, how, how, HOW did I get this way? What happened to me? Was it Thurman? Was it Reggie? Was it the transition from Mickey Mouse to Mickey Mantle, from Yogi Bear to Yogi Berra, from my scooter to The Scooter? Was it a childhood need to back some winner, some bet that would always pay off, some team that would always make me feel blessed, feel special, and not the faceless minion that has become my fruitless destiny? Because that winning team, that sure bet - it long ago became a millstone. And all because the owner sold it. 

So here I am, locked into a prison cell with an ownership, with a front office, with my personal Gishlaine - a cunning franchise that spends just enough to chase a wild card berth through September, to be always contending, to be slightly above .500 in a sport that spends six months to eliminate maybe the six worst teams, and then have your team declare itself a success throughout the primary media, which it owns. (YES is the Fox News Channel of sports. Why aren't they reporting on Boone's cankles!) 

Yep, here we go again. Here I am, booting up the Tankathon, watching smarter front offices rebuild - a word the Yankees cannot  speak. Boston spent four years rebuilding, and they just passed us. They're going to beat us like a drum for the next few years. Why, why, why... did I bother? 

Calgon Beauty Bath Beads - aka Jackson Dart - take me away!