If you are a fan of the New York Mets, the world has become
nothing more than a horror show. At this rate they will not be the worst team
in the league, but they have a fighting chance to be as close as humanly
possible. It’s been a monstrously horrible second half, the kind of second half
that makes one forget there ever was a first half, never mind a very good first
half. At the All-Star break the Mets
were 46-40 a few games behind the stunningly terrific Nationals and in the hunt
for a playoff birth.
Now they are a team with more emotional, mental, and
physical disorders than Freddy Kruger, Hannibal Lector, Michael Meyer, Norman
Bates, and the machete-wielding Jason combined. In honor of horror movies and
the horror the Mets have become, here’s my take. Warning, it will be a
bloodbath.
Should we start with the bullpen? Yes, let’s. There’s
nothing good there. They have an ERA
over 5.00. They have lost 24 games of their own accord. This is not pitching in
relief. This is called mass murder. Send
Jason and his machete into the bullpen, and let him slice, and gouge, and hack
away until there’s no one left. Let the guts pour, the heads split open, and
the blood run like the water ran into the bowels of The Titanic. Just let Jason
loose and do all the damage he can, murdering with aplomb, gutting the bullpen
like a seasoned fisher guts a catfish. Acosta and his over 10.00 ERA can go
first with machete chop through his cranium. In front of a mirror, slit open
Francisco’s neck, so he can watch himself bleed to death. He’s barely a
pitcher, never mind a “closer.” Rip off Parnell’s arm - with it’s five blown
saves – and beat him to death with it. Just slaughter the rest of them, letting
only Rausch escape the madness of the hockey wearing madman.
Send Freddy Kruger into the outfield. He can gut Jason Bay,
and watch his intestines and other internal organs spill out with an oozing
splat. Given his .154 batting average, ripping his guts out would be no loss,
because he lost them long ago. The Mets should swallow his contract, the way Bay
swallows his last breath as a Met: in one big gulp of blood-strewn deliciousness.
Andre Torres was supposed to be a solution, but now Freddy will be our solution,
as his metallic fingers rip out Andre’s spine. Luckily “Captain Kirk” is injured
and survives the bloodbath, as does the “Baxton” platoon.
While Jason and Hannibal are hacking and munching
respectively, Michael Myers can take a trip into the infield. Behind home
plate, he stabs Shoppach repeatedly, making room for a seasoned catcher, since
Thole doesn’t have the makings of an everyday catcher. Unless Ike Davis learns
to hit lefties, he needs to be suffocated with a Sunday New York Times, or
platooned with a seasoned veteran who can. Wright, Turner, and Tejeda manage to
escape, while before fade-out, Murphy was being stalked by the kitchen-knife
wielding Meyer, and may succumb to the bleeding from his defensive wounds. Anyone
else can be split open under Michael’s cold blade.
Hannibal Lecter – with his discriminating taste – heads to
the mound on a sunny day with a plate of fava beans. He can skip over Pelf,
because that corpse rotted in the sun long ago. To go along with his nice
Chianti, he can begin his meal with Hefner’s liver. As he attempts to go after
R.A., the pitcher confounds him with a crazy kuckleball and takes flight. The
youngsters – McHugh, Harvey, and Wheeler – all hide, knowing Hannibal is going
to take his time, and his delight in the meal he’s prepared. To go along with
Hefner’s liver, is a side of fresh Chris Young gall bladder, eaten in one big
gulp of blood-strewn deliciousness. Hannibal turns Dillon Gee’s stomach into a
delicious marinated dish of human tripe – a delicacy. Santana can be spared
though the off-season, but is on the Hannibal’s menu for 2013.
Norman Bates books a room across from Citifield. When the
Wilpon’s bodies are found, nothing remains except thousands of small chunks of
flesh covering every inch of the floor, with grey matter splattered and blood
is sprayed haphazardly all over the walls and ceiling. Norman is there sitting
in the corner, smiling.
And that’s how winter of 2012 commences.
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