It’s so bad that:

- I’ve been reading I Blame The Patriarchy instead of the Mets postgame summaries this week because it’s cheering by comparison.

- I went to Seattle for three days, didn’t go near a computer once, and actually dreaded “having” to look at one when I came back.

- The Mets were playing three games in L.A. with the Dodgers, 7 PM PDT starts, Monday through Wednesday, which meant I could have watched every second of every game if I’d wanted to unlike my East Coast counterparts. And not only did I not watch, I didn’t even check the final, because I didn’t feel like losing three hours of sleep to the inevitable horror of the box score.

- I started unraveling all my blue and orange crocheted flowers. Sheehowdy, somebody has to do something. Mere animal sacrifices ain’t gonna cut it here.

OK. Now, I’ve said before that I’ve suffered through losing Mets teams before. If I was watching in 1979 and 1980 — and 2002 and 2003 — you know I have to have a stronger stomach for losing than your average frontrunning yobbo. But there’s something truly creepy going on in Metville, something I haven’t ever seen before. Something that looks like voodoo hoodoo. They started out flying to Miami, and once they crossed the Gulf of Mexico, someone hijacked the plane to the Bermuda Triangle. Someone who didn’t even have pockets, let alone a suspicious-looking carry-on. They have truly seemed to have forgotten how to do everything. Which is far more painful for me to watch than a team which didn’t look very good in the first place.

Yeah, there have been injuries. But they have almost everybody back now. At least their bodies are there. But we are watching Invasion of the Mets Snatchers. I want my team back.

So now the Yankees have won 9 in a row, bless their little cockroach hearts, and the Mets figure to be both petit-fours and toothpicks for the Yankees this weekend when they get sucked into the Bronx for their three-game ritual killing.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, then. I will dig up navy and white yarn and start crocheting flowers in Yankees colors. I will wear navy and white clothing to work tomorrow. (I draw the line at buying Yankees gear, though — I just can’t.) I will watch the games and force myself to boo every time a Met gets a hit or strikes someone out. I will make popcorn and throw it at the screen every time they show Willie Randoph’s face. I will salaam at the sight of Roger Clemens — yikes! I didn’t really say that! Roger Clemens is evil!evil!evil! Ptooey! Ahem. How about if I salaam at the sight of Suzyn Waldman instead? At least she never gave anyone a concussion, just a headache. Plus she’s a breast cancer survivor, so she deserves a bow just for that. OK, much better.

Now, let’s see if I can actually be a Yankees fan with a straight face. And without hurling. I’ll let y’all know how it went.