Don’t you just love getting your own personal big faceful o’virus just in time to be sick all weekend? You know I do. Grumble grumble grumble.

Hence, no posts from me the last couple of days, as I’ve been forced to remain horizontal (and not in a good way) during most of that time. But you know what’s really refreshing and relaxing when you are that sick? Baseball on the radio. Especially when your team has good announcers. If even looking at a screen is too much work, there’s nothing like the Happy Pill bubble bath for the ears that is Howie Rose, and his sidekicks/substitutes Ed Coleman and Tom McCarthy aren’t bad either.

Now all I needed from the Mets this drippy snotty productive-cough weekend was three straight wins. Har har ho ho hee hee hee.

No, really, I had every right to expect that. After those first three games, when they did everything perfectly, how could I not believe they’d simply Xerox ‘em and keep sending ‘em in? I mean, you don’t go see Death Cab for Cutie one night, and then go back the next night and expect them to blow chow, right? For the first time, I was starting to understand the mentality of frontrunning Yankees fans (or any other kinds of frontrunning fans). Why on earth would you not root for the best team out there? Do we like torturing ourselves going back over and over again only to get kicked in the teeth by a team that, yet again, refuses to be the best?

Sure we do, if we’re a very special kind of Mets fan. It’s called Metsochism. When you are a Metsochist, all you have to remember are two things:

1. If the Mets win a series, or an individual Mets player does really really well, it’s some kind of fluke.

2. If the Mets lose a series, or an individual Mets player doesn’t do very well, it’s because the other team is better, or that player is and will forever be flaming Bandini.

Simple. Neat. And no letdown is involved, ever. After all, even dominant teams lose at least 50 times a year. And even the Yankees haven’t won a World Series since 2000, thanks to those “Mets in 3000″ bad juju balloons. So frontrunning is bound to carry with it its own brand of frustration. But if you expect frustration, you’re always in for a treat. Sorry, I just plumb forgot all of that — that’s what happens when you’re sick, you expect that being witness to your team’s Perfect Play will make you all better, and that nothing less will do. Yeah, all we have to do is find some team, somewhere, that never loses ever, and we can put the entire medical-pharmaceutical establishment out of business! Kewul! (Well, okay, at least until people got bored with it, which would take maybe five years or so.)

So I had to settle for one out of three in Atlanta, where The Ted once again became the place where the Mets touched the talent-sucking basketball from Space Jam and walked away ugly. Oliver Perez pitched gorgeously on Friday, giving up just one run and five hits in seven innings, Jose Reyes had two triples, one lefty and one righty — at the rate he’s going, he’ll finish with more three-baggers than anyone else has homers, riiiight? — and once again I started getting that entitled feeling, the this-is-their-year, they’re-so-much-better-than-everyone-else, neener-neener feeling.

But I shoulda known better. No team wins every series. And the Mets, especially, don’t tend to win them at Teh Tde, historically, except for last year’s fluke (see? see how Metsochism works?). On Saturday, Tom Glavine, once again, became his former team’s bitey toy. He didn’t pitch horribly — four hits, three walks, two earned runs — but was saddled with three unearned runs that cost him the game, thanks to the kind of uncharacteristically sloppy glovework (by Shawn Green and Carlos Delgado) I thought we’d never have to see again all year. (Yeah, I really did expect there not to be a costly error all year! For the first time for any team ever!)

My perspective on this game, admittedly, was not well aided by the news that A-Rod hit a walk-off grand slam the same day to cap a comeback by the Yankees over the Orioles. “Damn it,” I harrumphed, “why don’t we have anyone who can do that?” Yes, I actually thought that, on the occasion of “my” team’s first of at least 50 losses all year — one year after Carlos Beltran had three grannies in one season (the all-time single-season record is six, and the National League record is five, held solely by Ernie Banks, in case you care), which is something A-Rod hasn’t done since 1999. Why don’t we have anyone who can do that? Sheesh. I’d say it was the mucus talking, but I’ve had similar thoughts too many times when I wasn’t boogered up. Metsochism, I tell you.

And today? More of the same. Aaron Heilman blew the save in the eighth inning, wasting another masterful performance from the man I was all too happy to refer to as El Puque when he was with the Yankees, letting a 2-1 margin of victory become a 3-2 loss. And in a very un-Portlandesque fashion, I had dark dark thoughts amounting to: “Heilman must really want to get booed tomorrow.”

Right. Aaron Heilman did this just to piss me off. Aaron Heilman did this for the same reason he blew game 7 of the NLCS last year: because he doesn’t like his job and wants to be relieved of it. He wants to do shitty. Gotcha.

Like there’s a ballplayer alive who enjoys sucking out loud, who wants to be thought of as “the goat.” Yeah, Gary Sheffield as much as admitted he did that in his early years with the Brewers — then shortly thereafter retracted the statement — but Heilman isn’t 19 years old and his team, unlike those Brewers, actually has a good chance to go all the way. He’d have to be the biggest assberet in the galaxy to deliberately stand in the way of that, and I’m not convinced Keith Olbermann is about to name Heilman the Worst Person in Baseball or anything of that caliber. (Keith, for his part, blames Willie Randolph, rather than Heilman, for the Mets’ failure to win the 2006 pennant.) Every relief pitcher blows it sooner or later. Probably better for Heilman that this year, anyway, it was sooner.

So no, the Mets didn’t cure my damn hackycoughywhateveritis. But poo on me for expecting them to. Now, somebody go get me a Happy Pill — the kind you throw in the bath — and some Moose Drool, and then we’ll be partyin’ for real. Oh, and please don’t boo Heilman tomorrow, if you’re lucky enough to get to be there.