• Nostrablobus •

• Marlins 4 - Mets 3 •

After tonight's gut wrenching 4-3  loss to the Marlins, Mets Blob decided it was time to get some answers. Something is just not right. On Sunday, Scott Hairston tied game in the bottom of the 9th with a home run. Mets lose. On Monday Lucas Duda tied the game in the bottom of the 9th with a home run. Mets lose. Tonight the Mets took a 3-2 lead into the 9th. Mets lose. Do other teams do this? No. Every team has a few freakish losses per season but they don't string these games together. This is a Mets specialty. The Mets are the Joe DiMaggio of freakish loss losing streaks. Night after night, stuff happens in Mets games that defies explanation. Or does it?

After the final out, Mets Blob pulled the last Brooklyn Burger from his pocket and sat frozen in his right field seat. The familiar numbness that comes from being a Mets fans took hold and the Blob stared into space and mumbled combinations of words that fit the occasion: "What the effinig Izzy walked the leadoff hitter and hit another guy and Turner was 10 feet away from Duda and what the fuck did he? How can he throw the ball 30 feet over his fucking head?" Some new words were created too. Tonight, the new words that came out of the Blob's mouth were: "Izzyturnerterryfuck" and "AreyoushittingmeIhatemylifeballsack." After repeating these words several times The Blob realized he was speaking in tongues. Could it be? Could Mets Blob be possessed? 

Just then, the Blob looked up and saw a vendor approaching. A vendor in the right field seats 20 minutes after the game? This can't be right. Can it? Something eerie was going on. Being a Nostradamus scholar, the Blob was pretty sure what he was staring at. The handy iphone Nostradamus App confirmed Mets Blob's suspicions. Foretold by Nostradamus in 1548, quatrain 9,472.5 describes a harsh reality:

"A team of Queens trumped by King George and mired in financial ruin shall build a castle with ill gotten gains and sell food products, including something called Crack Jacker, at 500 times the price of the product's true value. This misfit army - once proud champions when led by the mustached one who fired up something called Marlboro's and slickly grasped the rock with a leather lobster claw for a right arm - will fall on hard times. Ugly collapses will grow to epic proportions and nothing will ever be the same. Contests will turn on plays never before seen or contemplated leaving the masses heartbroken again and again...and again and many more agains than I can write with my quill at present. To sum it up; all will suck as much suck as can be sucked by the Celtic Murph until the one with head of fire, not the Rusty one, will throw an object so errantly that children will cry and house cats will laugh - and then someone...some force - will appear to the special Blobby one at an unscheduled time but he will have no goodies, only dust.

He will be known as the 'Vendor From Another Era' and he will explain that he lost his job because a man named Bob E. Bo needed all the money. The vendor will confess to the Blob that he was so hurt by his firing that he cursed the team of Queens and tormented their followers forever more."