... and here we go, deja vu-ing (with the ghost of Yogi) toward another gaslit Yankee winter

Glance around the Yankiverse. Does anything feel, well, familiar?

Check the headlines... 

Sorry, folks. Something shorted out. I cannot march in another black parade. Fuck the lists. Fuck the questions. Fuck Cashman and Boone. Fuck Dax Kilby. Fuck the usual October collapse, the same shit show we've endured for 16 years. Let's face the truth.

The Yankees exist as a massive cultural and political grift - a means by the ruling, billionaire class to steal our money, our time, our emotions, our energy and our attention to a malevolent system that imprisons us in a permanent freefall. You think I'm overstating this? Well, here's the only fucking worthy story in the Yankiverse today.

That's right. Dua Lipa hoovered a hotdog, and the clickbait bots that control the Internet got a viral stiffy. Last year it was Taylor Swift. Five years ago, Lady Gaga. Eighty years, Rosemary Clooney. Nothing's changed. Fools like me followed the Yankees for 168 games - all for nothing. Now, it's suddenly hurricane season, and we're supposed to start mouthing crapola about the Jazz Chisholm/Anthony Volpe rip in the fabric of realty? 

So, yeah, it's all about clicks, right? That's why we exist. Okay, on that note, here you go, everybody... 

Yep. Trained seals. The scoreboard says, NOISE!, and we scream our lungs out. The world is collapsing, the oceans are hot, death row inmates are waking up with injection needles in their arms, the Pentagon plans televising executions, and I'm supposed to concoct the five essential questions about next year.

Okay. Here are my five:

1. What the fuck? 

2. How do I get to the exit?

3. Why should anybody care about the Yankees?

4. Seriously, is there a way out?

5. Will Dua Lipa get fat?

Here we go again.