I fear that my Tigers are M.I.A.. Missing and presumed dead. At best, semi-comatose. I am grieving. A swimming pool of grief has presented itself before me and I have executed the perfect cannonball into it. I must now deal with my grief. I intend to engage in some serious introspection and with the help of the Kubler-Ross model, the five stages of dealing with grief, perhaps I'll find some answers. Here are my five stages:
Denial: Come on lighten up already. This is a temporary funk. Tem-po-frikkin'-rary my friend, tem-po-frikkin'-rary. Eyuh, yuh, yuh (That was Big Al, by the way.) So they've lost 20 of their last 29. So what Max and JV have one quality start out of their last seven? This is baseball people, not Armageddon. Hey! Two of the four horsemen are warming up in the bullpen. WTF?
Anger: All right, what in fresh hell is going on here? What is this? A GOAT RODEO? Why are the Tigers suddenly guest starring in an ultra-cheesy episode of "Quantum Leap" and the destination year is twenty-o-frikkin'-three? I HATE Dean Stockwell. For all that is righteous and good, will you GET YOUR S**T TOGETHER PEOPLE! And by the way, WHERE THE F**K IS THE SINGING HOT DOG GUY? Sorry for all the yelling, but as you can plainly see, I'm angry.
Bargaining: (Phone conversation between Dave D. and the Dread Lord Prince of Darkness.) "So DLPoD, how many souls did you say? Whoa, that's a s**t ton. Gonna have to sleep on that one. Can I get back to you?"
Depression: We're going to do it aren't we? We're going to sign Valverde again aren't we? (Holds head in hands and sobs uncontrollably.) Please... Just... Give my... Tigers... Back... Pleeeeze!
Acceptance: CoPa has bacon on a stick? Sweet.
If you happen to find yourself in a similar psychological state, rest assured that you are not alone. We are not one, we are legion.