Let’s do a comparison. Pitcher A is a fat gimpy godboy on the juice that went from being Super Tough Power Pitcher Man to soft-tossing Frank Tanana-wannabe b*tch. Pitcher B is a overpaid waste of mile high sh*t lucking into the best f*cking streak he’ll ever see. Pitcher C is some f*cking wanna-be rock star that likes going for the girls that just got the right to vote. Pitcher D is some minor-league lifer pitching so far over his f*cking head his grandkids are gonna get nosebleeds.

My question to you is – how many f*cking times in the next week-plus are we gonna hear about these dipsh*ts and their f*cking Race For The American League Invitational before you reach for the Drano? How many times is Joe Buck gonna have to come up for air when talking about *ssface Derek Jeter & his buttplug buddy A-Shaft? How many times will Suzyn Waldman bring out the smelling salts to keep a sauced-up John “Corky” Sterling conscious? How many times will Homer J. Castiglione & his sped play-by-play pal weep in their f*cking prune juice watching John Flaherty take some AA retread to the South Side three times? And who’s gonna get the fattest: Don “Oreo” Orsillo or Michael “I See Boobies, And They’re MINE” Kay? You bet your *ss they’re jigglin’, baby.

Really, I could give two sh*ts about the games this week, especially f*cking Philly playing out the sh*t end of their sh*t string. Speaking of fat, when the hell did Charlie Manuel go condo? For f*ck’s sake, Charlie, you don’t eat a cheesesteak every f*cking meal. Chr*st. If you want to quit, do what Lou did – be a whiny b*tch, f*ck your team up more than it already is, and then take yr damn paycheck and get the f*ck out. But, yeah, f*ck this garbage. The playoffs are usually a joke – the type of f*cking joke you don’t understand unless you know some archaic English lit bullsh*t – but this year is gonna be something special. Keep the barf bags handy, folks.

I get at least 25 e-mails a day, asking me who’s gonna win, who’s gonna win, who should I bet on, is LaRussa gay, who’s gonna win? Whatever – it’s not who’s gonna win, it’s who’s gonna not lose. (As for TLR – lady, if you have to ask, shut the f*ck up.) All the teams suck. The Cardinals are all dinged up (including that f*cking sissy Rolen), the Braves are playing T-ball kids, I don’t even know how the Astros have a f*cking winning record, and f*ck if I’m gonna say a g*ddamn thing about that f*cking piece of sh*t division on the left coast.

And the f*cking American League – everyone’s playing grabass with the divisions. “You take it.” “Oh, no, I insist, it’s yours.” “No, you take it; I need to change my tampon.” “Oh, no, please – I have to tweez my toes; please, feel free.” First it’s Boston, then it’s New York. First it’s Hawk’s He-Gones, then it’s Chief F*ck Me. First it’s Billy Beano, then it’s Mike Scoscia and The Amazing Technicolor Down’s Syndrome Drool. WOULD SOMEONE WIN TWO GAMES IN A F*CKING ROW PLEASE FOR F*CK’S SAKE.

Except for the Yankees. F*ck them and their f*cking network and their g*ddamn f*cking comfortable as f*ck jogging shorts with f*cking YES NETWORK right on the *ss. Unless you’re a New Yorker, or stupid (and you’d have to be stupid to live in New York), you don’t want to see any more f*cking bullshit Greatest Team Ever To Squeeze One Off On A Groupie’s Chest pumpwaxing from anyone anywhere. You don’t want to hear about the latest nusing home grannie they signed to a two-year twenty million dollar deal. You don’t want to hear about how great their piece of sh*t rookies are – “hey, he didn’t ground into a double play today – here’s a Jag and some b*tches!” You don’t want to see Jason “IN THE ASS” Giambi swing anything. Ha – except maybe a pick axe in a chain gang. Yeah, OF COURSE the guy in Baltimore gets busted, and that poor jerk in Seattle gets it THREE TIMES, but the big fancy New York f*ck, he gets off scott free. Why? Because he’s some f*cking fancy pants chi-chi millionaire b*tch. He greases that f*cking car dealer’s sweaty palms with some pocket change, and then goes to get his backhairs braided. F*cking loofah on your own f*cking time, Belvedere – some of us here are trying to f*cking play baseball, AKA A Man’s Game. That means No Tits Allowed, BALC-ki.

So, yeah: for the next month, all I have to look forward to is spending time with the specially abled folks at E$PN and telling drunk fat gambling-addict slobs the difference between a curveball and the f*cking nuts they’re scratching. Nothing makes the Bushmills go down quicker and sweeter than having some Vanilla Ice-looking jerk in a Men’s Warehouse hand-me-down ask me what I thought about David Ortiz and his fat head, or f*cking Ageless Steroid Poster Boy Roger Clemens and his close personal friend Jesus F*cking Pettite, or Those Surprising And F*cking Stupid Racist Cleveland Indians, or (f*ck me) the chance that the San Diego Bismarcks have of not sh*tting themselves stupid for three whole games.

But I’m paid for my “expert analysis” (and you bet yr *ss I’m paid), so for all you lowlife f*cks that want some Jimmy The Greek sh*t, here it is: Boston’s done. Atlanta’s done. White Sox are done and re-done. Yankees and Cards in the series. And the Yankees in six. Why? F*ck you, that’s why. Cha-ching, b*tches.