I am Metatron! Mouthpiece of the Almighty! Scribe of the Creator! Possessed of wisdom beyond all understanding! Speaking with the breath of the Divine! Enoch, transformed through primordial fire, seraphic eyes ablaze, torchlike! Walker at the side of God, His holiest company!

I am Metatron! We have endured now two years in witness of the name, “The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim,” which remains an abomination! We, the primordial, are long past the earthly memory of embarrassment, but the disharmony of “The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim” in this late day invites the fundaments of darkness into our realm! Even to utter it, as I already have done not once, but twice, works to disjoin the very fabric of meaning and existence!

I am Metatron! The signing of Gary Matthews Jr. to a Five Year Contract is a grave peril! I, Metatron, cannot comprehend such folly. Indeed, it is the kind of signing that makes one weep for all of humanity. This piteous mortal, Gary Matthews Jr., will finish his 33rd year of existence in the coming August. Can William Stoneman not recognize the fallacy staring him right in the face? Will that mortal be worth $10 million as he enters his 39th year? The Gary Matthews Jr. which William Stoneman has signed is a phantom! A golem of air, borne of the warm winds of Texas! A grotesque mutant, grown unnaturally potent by greedily suckling the divine secretion of human transformation! A cruel puppet, yanked by the strings of Fate unto completing that catch, that catch, THAT CATCH, which Metatron owns he could never accomplish, even on the best day of his near-immortal life! But nay! Woe unto the nation that signs the phantom to a five-year contact, at $10 million per! Woe unto the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim!

I am Metatron, and I have said the name again! Even a seraph is imperfect! Perfection is the sole dispensation of the All-Perfect!

I am Metatron! And a consciousness need not the wisdom of the Kingdom of Heaven to recognize that this team requires not the illusion of a fleet center fielder, but the inarguable material reality of A Bat! A Great Bat, which shall smite the baseball, yea, and mightily. For lo, the players assembled under the banner of Anaheim did score 4.73 runs per game last year, besting only Seattle and those twin cities of misery, Kansas City and Tampa Bay! The tally of home runs did number 159, reeking of such acrid failure as unto a fortress of myrrh, erected upon a fundament of dung!

I am Metatron! And with the addition of the aforesaid Gary Matthews Jr. to Chone Figgins, Howie Kendrick and Orlando Cabrera, the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim threaten to feature half of a lineup that hits .270 with 10 home runs and 40 bases upon balls unto each! And behold, Garrett Anderson shall not see twenty home runs again! And behold, I have seen the future of Mike Napoli, and it is named Matt Nokes!

I am Metatron! And in my infinite wisdom, I have determined who must hit behind Vladimir Guerrero! And that determination is thus: Anyone Else! Anyone other than whomever might conceivably fulfill the task at present! If Garret Anderson is a cleanup hitter, that team shall not go to the World Series! If Shea Hillenbrand is a cleanup hitter, that team shall not go to the World Series! Shall Mike Napoli carry that weight? Woe to the team that asks him to do so, for he shall snap like a flag in the breeze. Where is Anyone Else? O Where is Anyone Else?!

I am Metatron! And I gaze upon the starting rotation that begins with John Lackey, Ervin Santana and Jered Weaver, and I see that it is good. And I gaze upon Kelvim Escobar, and I see that he, too, is good, though doubts yet plague us. And I gaze upon the bullpen, and so vividly does it shine that I must avert mine eyes! And I gaze upon Bartolo Colon and I see that he is fat. So surpassing fat is Bartolo Colon that even I, Metatron, find it difficult to apprehend his entirety in my seraphic gaze!

For I am Metatron, and I was present this past November when Bartolo Colon consumed not one, but three Plates of Ribs at Tony Roma’s, which in the defence of Bartolo Colon, is known as A Place For Ribs! And yea, for I was also present at the Fuddrucker’s on Route 57 in Garden Grove, when Bartolo Colon did empty an entire Fixin’s Bar cannister of Spicy Cheddar Sauce unto a sequence of baked potatoes, each of which he did devour! And yea, for as Bartolo Colon did, not a fortnight ago, sneak down unto his spacious kitchen in the hours before the dawn and did disgorge an entire jar of Jalepeno-Stuffed Olives unto his mouth, I, Metatron, sat, weightless and aghast, upon his still-tender shoulder!

I am Metatron! And unless Bartolo Colon alters his present course, he shall find his own earthly form assume the geometric proportions of the letter “O” which occurs with such abundance in his own name! Bartolo Colon must now appreciate that he needs the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim more dearly than the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim need him! Let him rebuild the damaged shoulder! Let him strive toward a more linear physical presence! For aye, if he accomplish these tasks, then the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim do verily boast the Pitching Staff Which Surpasseth All Others!

Aye and woe! For I am Metatron, and I have spoken the accursed name of this team a seventh time! And whereso upon that seventh speaking have I been called hence from this perch, by the Clarion Voice of the All-Clarion, instructed thus to Cut It Out! Thus, do I obey. But not before rendering judgement thus:

This team may yet win its malnourished division! But it has not the strength to touch the championship, and shall not! But lo, should it bring forth Manny Ramirez or even Adam Dunn, all wagers be null and void, and the sweet ambroisia of Victory may yet be tasted, drunk and micturated in Celebration! So it is written, so shall it be done! I am Metatron!

Metatron has served as the scribe of God since 3094 BC, when he was assumed into heaven after 365 years of earthly existence as the prophet Enoch. Apart from God, Himself, Metatron is the only being in Paradise who is permitted to sit down, which is nice.