While watching the star-crossed Red Sox-Royals series on the Royals television network last week (thanks for not giving me a choice, Extra Innings package that I paid nearly 200 dollars for!), I heard tales of the Royals' upcoming hellish schedule. After our series, they'd go on to play 12 games over the next 10 days.

While checking game times today, I couldn't help but notice the Royals had been swept in a doubleheader yesterday by the Indians. And the linescores looked familiar. Then I checked Friday. Same deal: The Royals have been losing in the same way we lost every game to them ever since.

Friday night they blew a 3-0 lead and lost in the ninth on a three-run, walkoff triple.

In Saturday's first game, they scored three in the top of the ninth to tie the game, only to give up the winning run in the bottom half.

In the second game, they scored a run in the eighth to take the lead, but gave two right back, and then were held scoreless in the ninth.

Three one-run losses, all won by Cleveland in their last at bat.

So the Royals distilled the life that was inside of us, and then, in turn, got the life inside of them distilled by a little Tribe. And that's how baseball has always been. And always will, until the end.

Today it's Lester against the O-Bags.

And in The Bronx, it's a match-up of two of the most influential characters in the history of American film. UHF's "Weaver" spins the wheel of fish for the Angels, while Caddyshack's "Wong" looks to take pictures of a parking lot on the Yanks' behalf.

Why do I get the feeling I'll be telling Weaver how stupid he is after he suddenly turns into a drooling infant at the sight of (God for-effing-bid) a tall stadium-looking object and loud noises made by drunk (sub-) humans?