Associated Press

The next month or so will be nonsense. Blech.

We’ve almost arrived at the post-season, which is easily my least favorite time of year. For a time, it looked like we wouldn’t make the playoffs, which was great. But now we keep winning, more and more media and fans are showing up for the games, and it’s just one long headache.

The last few seasons, the only redeeming factor is that the playoffs have been short. Hopefully this pattern continues, and we lose quickly to LA or whoever and have some time to enjoy autumn before winter starts. It’s the prettiest time of the year in New York, and it kills me to have to spend it in Cleveland’s laughable version of a luxury hotel.

Most people can’t understand why I hate the playoffs. Well, picture a stadium full of loud savages screaming and cheering and booing, flash bulbs going off like crazy, television crews following you twenty-four hours a day, and nervous tension in the locker room. Newspapers print headlines with hateful puns on your name, commentators question your mental fortitude, and even the most hideous groupies act like you’ve let them down. Yet despite the chaos and confusion, despite not knowing where you are half the time, despite spending weeks on the verge of a breakdown, everyone still expect you to hit a baseball!

No. Absolutely not. I’m sorry, but I won’t do it. Boo me if you will, New York, but I won’t be held to unreasonable expectations. Let Derek the Great shoulder all your little hopes. Starting today, I’m done. Sure, I’ll go through the motions, but don’t expect me to legitimize the inane hysteria by fretting over the results. I’m not your monkey, and this isn’t a sauna.

In other news, I had Earl Grey tea for the first time yesterday. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.