On the white flag, and waving it

Ok, ok.
So I went out of town for a week, after being glued to my TV set, mets blogs, news sites, etc., all season, and the shmets started loosing. It felt good to be free of their hold on my brain. They lost without my support. Is it my fault?

Ok, ok, so I watched yesterday's game. Turner Field. Dipshit broadcasters. Hubristic, smirking snap catches in center. John Thompson, for cripesake. And I wasn't in the least bit suprised at what happened. But this latest indignity barely registered on my face. Sure, my temperature rose slightly when the camera panned to the Tomahawk Chopping morons of Atlanta, but who wouldn't get a little flush at the site of a redneck mob of fairweather fans--that's just scary. Otherwise, I handled it calmly, didn't snap at anyone, or take out my sour mood on passersby. Maybe I growled into an imaginary lapel microphone, "the Jones boys must be deesstrooyed," but other than that, nothing. No angry outbursts. No sweat. No swearing. No punching. No biting. Nothing.

Have I lost my edge? Or is the event of the Mets loosing to the Br*ves late in the season on Chippit J*nes homeruns so spectacularly expected, so routine, so predestined, that even my physiological systems are unaffected by the defeat? Why didn't I cringe as a tired Trash-hell groved that pitch right into Larry's wheelhouse? The Br*ves stars deliver, the shmets "stars" crumble, as sure as day follows night, I thought, and made a mental note to try setting my watch to it. Willie is an idiot I thought, and tried to feel emotion.

Nothing.

Thank you, "new" mets, you have numbed me to the T*rner Field Blues.