The Mets are BACH

The Mets just beat the shit out the fish and are officially sitting pretty at .500 and only 2.5 games out of the wildcard. They’ve raised their playoff chances over 20% in the last 2 weeks and are looking primed to make a (probably heartbreaking) run.

To this point, it’s been a pretty quintessential Mets season. We’ve had our ups, most notably anything that my sweet prince Pete Alonso has done and new puppy owner Jeff McNeil and his conquest for an NL batting title. And we’ve had our downs, the bullpen has been fucking atrocious and Jeurys Familia and Edwin Diaz might actually stop my heart and put me out of my misery before I give this team a chance to break it. On top of that, our new GM/Former Agent/Wilpon Puppet/Baseball Illiterate Dickhead Brodie Van Wagenen has continued to make head scratching decisions while trying to foist blame for the team’s lack of success onto Mickey Callaway.

But, despite the worst owners in sports, an incompetent front office and a streak of luck that many would say resembles some form of dark gypsy magic, here we are. We were buyers, we were sellers, we had all the plans and no plans at all, yet somehow we’ve won 9 of our last 10.

There’s something special happening in Flushing and I am here for it. And so, from this point forward, I am all in. There will be no cuncel this year. I will be purchasing a rally parakeet that I may or may not attempt to release at Citi Field. If we can tap into that 2015 magic and the bullpen can just be AVERAGE – not great, not lockdown, not no doubt, just fucking perfectly average – then there is absolutely no reason this team can’t compete right now.

Tagging Strohman in for Vargas (enjoy your trojan horse you Philly animals) gives us arguably the best rotation in the NL and the offense has been there this year. In the words of Gary Cohen, the Mets just can’t beat their own bullpen. But, if Lugo can continue this resurgence of looking like an actual baseball player and not a washed up beer leaguer and Familia and Edwin Diaz can figure out how to be 75% as productive as they can be then you tell me who’s beating this team.

In the end, I will certainly regret this choice and have my heart and soul shattered into a billion little pieces for the Wilpons to frolic in like ticker tape at the parade we probably won’t ever see, but until then I’m going to do what I do best: suppress my true emotions with copious amounts of drugs and alcohol and cheer my dick off for this group of (kind of) lovable losers until I have a World Series to show for it. Bring on the Parakeets!