With the calendar yet to turn the page to September, it has incredibly been months since the Baltimore Orioles’ and Kansas City Royals’ seasons sluiced, sloshed, and slimed their respective ways through the grimy bowels of our national pastime’s subterranean sewage system, deposited with emphatic finality into the dark metaphysical corner where prematurely shat out seasons go to fester, gone well before actually playing themselves out completely, yet never to be forgotten, scarring our children and populating our nightmares with indelible images of bumblefuckery and atrocities somehow permitted to play out on 29 well-manicured lawns spread across this unraveling country—and one north of the border, where these clubs’ unfathomably lewd and lascivious brands of baseball pose a serious and sincere threat to the fabric of Canada’s mild-mannered being, even in small portions—through sheer, unrivaled ineptitude borne from a toxic combination of hubris and a complete lack of self-awareness and introspection.
Baltimore Orioles series preview: Binary black holes near each other, threatening human existence
