The Hour of My Resentments

This is hour of my resentments.

First, the orange man stuck a finger in my eye, stood over my crestfallen soul and proclaimed that sanity was dead.

Now, something even far worse, something unimaginably horrid, has come to pass. Benedict Arnold has left the Bronx and taken his Brink's truck to Queens.

Et tu Brute.

Sustaining any political defeat is insufferable. This particular one requires a new term in our language, one that connotes an impossibility that has afflicted us not once, but now again. Deja doo-doo. Enough to make a grown person cry. Or at least turn off MSNBC for the foreseeable future.

But there are personal traumas that are so deeply entrenched that, if they do not break a heart, they bend it into unrecognizable shapes. Was not $760,000,000 enough for you? Were the extra few dollars you grabbed worth the devastation you left in your wake? Did you not even bleed one ounce of pinstripe when you stabbed us in the back?

I realize I have accepted being on the wrong end of elections through my lifetime. You win some you lose some. But this I cannot allow to pass without my advising you of my consternation. Strike that. My absolutely severe consternation.

I have seen the videos of the Bomber aggrieved, putting together a remarkable series of expletives, burning your jersey (if they could have done so with you still wearing it that would have met with their unqualified approval), advising that, to them, you are as dead as an old car on a subfreezing day with a battery that has seized up.

And why, oh why, if you were going, going, gone could you not have taken your act 3000 miles away. I would have started a go fund me page for you in order to make up any shortfall between a West Coast offer and what the Mets dangled in front of your punim.

I grow most anxious I will almost be able to hear the screams from my bedroom window when you circle the bases or work out one of your signature base on balls next year.

And the smirks on the faces of those Met fans I have belittled for so many decades will, I fear, be far too great to bear.

This is the season of my discontent.