By Flannery McCullers

Could the Yankees be more villainous and black-hearted? We think not. Leave aside their signing of famed metrosexual Johnny Damon, an over-hyped fraud who throws like a 12-year-old girl, and has little more than a winsome grin and willingness to play through brain-damaging concussions to recommend him; ignore their ludicrous claims that moving from the shit-hole in which they currently play to a new, expensive shit-hole will result in trillions of dollars of economic activity in the Bronx, of which they’re as much a part as those new space-pirate outposts at the southern tip of the borough; forget about announcer Michael Kay, whose cloying, bombastic, self-reverential and condescending commentary has made him the bane of every New York baseball fan with a working set of ears. In signing relief pitcher Kyle Farnsworth, the Yankees have crossed the thin line that separates villainy from treason.

Farnsworth is not the most loathsome human being in the major leagues—that would be either Milton Bradley, notable for having the police called on him for choking his pregnant wife, or child-beating, gay-hating, dinosaur-denying, umpire-headbutting, world-class wingnut Carl Everett. Farnsworth is, however, quite possibly the biggest moron in the majors, which is as notable an achievement as being the one most jacked-up on human growth hormone and designer steroids, the one least faithful to his wife or the one most in love with himself.

What are Farnsworth’s achievements? Where to begin? Wearing a puka-shell necklace; using his judo skills to beat the tar out of rival players who have no more fighting skills than the next sissy ballplayer; having been spotted approximately 7,364 times getting shit-faced at crappy frat bars around Wrigley Field, and on Rush and Division in Chicago; having inspired an urban legend that his shitty pitching in one particular season was caused by him having knocked up some Mormon girl whose refusal to marry him inspired him to constantly fly to her house to beg her to settle down with him; refusing to take some speed off his 102-mph fastball so as to make it not cross the plate straight as a ruler, and wearing uniform pants so tight you can see his balls are a few among his many offenses. We could go on.

The sad thing is that Yankees fans—to whom, we understand, geneticists go to be assured of finding a large population of semi-functioning persons who lack the vital chromosomes that separate man from beast—will glom on to this degenerate the first time he pukes all over himself in some Upper East Side bar and gets written up on Page Six for it. They’ll cheer as he inflicts his hangover-fueled judo wrath on some hapless Devil Ray the next day; they’ll forgive him when he gives up a 600-ft. home run; they’ll don puka-shell necklaces in solidarity with the dimwitted oaf. At least they’ll deserve him, as he deserves them.