When does football start?

Fuck the Mets.

Seriously, getting swept by the Diamondbacks?

I hate you all, Mets, but especially you, Jason Bay. And you, Frankie Rodriguez. And Oliver Perez, who, like a particularly inflamed herpes outbreak, returned last night. And Omar Minaya. And Mike Pelfrey. And Jeff Francouer. And especially, most especially, that sac-bunt-calling, Fernando Nieve-pitching manager made of equal parts misery and rape, Jerry Manuel.

Mark it down: This season is over. Our playoff chances are dead. Perhaps not mathematically, but here's where we stand:

• 3 games over .500 with 67 to play
• 6.5 games out of first
• 3.5 out of the wild card
• barely clinging to fifth in the wild-card race

Coming off of a sweep against the remarkably bad D-backs (24 games under .500 -- before playing the Mets), we head into these last 10 weeks of the season with:

• a bullpen that contains the aforementioned STD imitator Oliver "Fucking" Perez and several other shitty baseball-throwers who should not be getting paid to throw baseballs
  
• a starting rotation consisting of Johan Santana, a rookie, a 35-year-old knuckleballer and some pieces of rancid, floating debris
• a three-catcher rotation that, against all sense, continues to include Rod Barajas as one of its three parts
• a player impersonating Jason Bay -- in name, not baseball ability
  
• a position on the field that is played defended stood in by, at best, gimpy Luis Castillo or, sigh, Alex Cora, who hit a home run in Little League once. (Well, it was really one of those grounders to short which the shortstop overthrew to first, then the first basemen ran after it and then overthrew it to second, and by the time the fat, paste-eating kid in left field tracked it down, Cora was dusting himself off after sliding into third for some strange reason when his coach screamed "RUN!" so Alex did. The throw to home beat him by about 10 feet because even then lil' Alex's legs weren't made for "going fast," but luckily the catcher was a girl so she dropped it because girls can't play baseball. Anyway, the official scorer, who may have been Alex's dad, credited him with a "Home Run!!!" and even bought him some tasty French fries and soda pop afterward to celebrate. Good times.)

Despair and inevitability have finally assumed their proper places in the lives of Mets fans worldwide.

Of course, even the Mets (probably) can't manage to continue this awful version of baseball too much longer. During this recent 3-8 stretch, they haven't scored more than four runs once. But a lineup that looks like this:

1. Reyes
2. Pagan
3. Wright
4. Beltran
5. Davis
6. Bay
7. Thole
8. Castillo

will wind up scoring a decent amount, even if Jerry Manuel insists on giving away outs and runs willy-nilly by sacrifice bunting even though that's almost always a really stupid thing to do because -- surprise! -- outs are really valuable and you're way more likely to score runs if you let your major-league hitters hit and try to get on base and not make big-inning-killing outs instead.

I'm sure I'll keep watching, and while I watch my heart will defy all logic and reason and continue to believe we'll somehow find our way into the postseason. I will watch as Francisco Rodriguez adds to his already-miles-long list of ways to teach me new forms of heartbreak and suffering and homicidal rage. And while doing all this, I will drink, for that is what Mets fans must do to endure.

Anyways, so later tonight I'll be watching the Mets begin their four-game sweep at the hands of the Dodgers, splitting my time between frantically texting Side Bar in ALL CAPS (the font known as "Manuel") and cutting myself. Swing by if you can! (And bring bourbon.)