Okay, I died and went to Hell, right? Why else is everybody talking about Anthony Volpe?

Okay, what did me in? Was it those greenish, weirdly crunchy cheese curds, with the dead cockroach mouthfeel? Shouldn't have downed the package. But but BUT... who says no to a curd?  

Or was it last night's rainstorm, which turned low-beams into a laser-show. I was turning left into a swarm of lighthouse beacons, when the radio suddenly shifted into Don't Fear the Reaper. A cosmic moment? Didja know that Blue Oyster Cult was an upstate band? Seasons don't fear the Reaper...

Anyway, if we're together in eternity, this sucks. Today, I wake up to find practically everybody in this dark, Trump-weary universe talking about - gulp - the war, the economy, Sydney Sweeney Anthony Fucking Volpe. Yep, the Volpster. Aaron Judge started it. He said the Yankees need Volpe next year, and - listen - nobody around here ignores the Big Fella. 

Yeah, I'm thinking the cheese curds.

So here we are, in Hell, where there is a movement to figure out what went wrong, and come up with a quick fix for the '27 Yankees. And, of course, no simple solution exists. If you're debating 2B, good luck, because you might as well be discussing the cast of Knot's Landing. Here are the candidates...

1. Jazz Chisholm
2. Anthony Volpe
3. Jose Caballero
4. Amed Rosario
5. Max Schuerman
6. Luis Garcia Jr. 
7. Your mom.

Also, please note that this ignores the looming declaration of martial law End of Times lockout, which will suspend all rules from winters past, and the fact that we still have Dopey Dildox and his algorithm running the show. 

Donno if I'm dead. (If I've crossed over, why do I need to pee?) But if we're talking about Volpe, this is Hell. We've come a long, long way from Bobby.