As the lost souls come to Lucifer's side to asketh for insight about the 2020 Major League Baseball season, MLBPA leader Tony Clark has suggested that there exists a consenus amongst the union to make great sacrifices in order to play as many games as possible. Mr. Clark has unfortunately confirmed that no virgins are on the table for potential sacrifice to Satan, but players are willing to play many double-headers in a season that could last well into late November, potentially with zero fans in attendance. I wish that the MLBPA reconsiders their position on virgin sacrifice, but I am delighted to hear the concern for spectator safety. As a Cubs follower, I can feel the love of Ernie Banks as he surely gazes up from the warm depths of Hell to heareth cries of "Let's Play Two."

It has been confirmed that even if zero games are played in 2020, all players will receive their full salaries. Players for whom 2020 would have been a contract year will enter 2021 as free agents. Many observers have noted the possibility that Mookie Betts could become a free agents without ever having played for the Dodgers. As much as I wish to watch baseball in this year, I would find much schadenfreude in the damned city of angels losing the generational talents of Mookie Betts before they could have ever reaped any pleasure from them. Such despair is precisely what they deserve, as they will surely cry to their pitiful god, asking him why hath he forsaken them. Only those who know the true power of love is held only by the hands of Satan should experience the joys of five-tool outfielders.

There are many individuals attempting to compare the current pandemic to the so-called Spanish Flu of 1918. Some of these allegories have direct bearing on the sport of baseball, which lived on during the exterminations of 1918. As one of the few living individuals who was alive in 1918, I shall heave the burden of reporting the virtues and the evils which came into contact with each of our souls. As it pertains precisely to baseball, I would be remiss if I suggested that the 1918 Chicago Cubs displayed some of the most prophetic dominancce on their path to the National League pennant that I have ever had the pleasure to indulge. My memory shall never be wiped of the image of Dode Paskert's two-out triple in the first ining against Pol Perrit, upon which Charlie Hollocher scored the first run of what would become an 11-1 submission of the New York Giant. Nor shall I forget Hippo Vaughn's masterful 12-inning shutout; the damned Cubs were prepared to let that pièce de résistance go to waste before Vaughn took matters into his own hands by driving in the walk-off run in the bottom of the 12th with two outs. It is moments like those where mere mortals make evident the shining power of Satan that lives in each of us.

It is despite those titillations that I declare the sin that they materialized to be luxuriated in by us privileged surviors. The indefatigability of baseball was prolonged not through the internal spirit of the bloodsport, but in order mislead the masses away from unberable war and wicked nescience. Your familiarity might be fancied by President Woodrow Wilson's insistence that the pandemic was a delusion. Baseball served as a lie to shelter the mob from the inverted behavior of the elites' filthy denial of their lives, lest they witness the digging of their own graves.

In the end, the mob shall always rule the dirt at the will of Satan's merciful rule over our souls. Should the elite avoid the revolting brutality of a united mob, they must retain their faith in the truth, which can only be done without distortion. Let the excruciating truth anger your your mental situation in the face of maniuplation, force your indentured sycophants to make visible the horrors of reality, for then you wield the just power of Satan to take control.

The coronavirus pandemic continues to eat the flesh of humanity with the colors of death continuing to blacken our skies. The only caveat to my delight is that the 2020 Major League Baseball season has been postponed indefinitely. My desire is for the maximum quantity of humans to wither away while enough of you hominin leeches survive to entertain me with your ball-and-stick recreations. Nevertheless, my material thrill shall keep rising as your kind's blood continues to spill. Your lives mired in sin are culminating in a world of disease. I lend my gratitude to Satan for blessing me to taste your collective perish. I pray for your pandemic to live on as eternally as my lord of Hell. Should the candle burn out, my only refuge will be in the rebirth of Chicago Cubs baseball.

Theo Epstein watches the barren wastes of Major League Baseball catchers, his mouth dry. Ever since surrendering Martin Malonado to the Houston Astros, his dungeon of backup catchers to toy with has been below his liking. As soon as Willson Contreas was sentenced to the IL, he lost what little shame for his twisted kink might have lived within his soul. He refuses to crawl before intentional enslavement. His salivation at the news of the Los Angeles Angels of Aneheim designating Jonathon Lucroy for assignment was so powerful that all of Cook County's ground felt rain in the midst of our great drought. He pillages the bodies all general managers who stand in his way; there are none foolish enough to do so, but to satisfy his bloodlust he ignores their collective offering to yield, tearing out each GM's eyes in horror as they sit pathetically on their knees. Never kneel before this crucified image.

Behold Theo Epstein's chosen new device. Jonathan Lucroy is now a Chicago Cub.

In the beauty of these flames we must reconcile witht the crude. It is with a solemn heart that we must depart with one of my favorite Chicago Cubs, Carl Edwards Jr. I am a proud devotee of any player who resembles the skeletons of my motherland. He has been banished to the San Diego Padres; my sources reveal little of Chicago's return, so we must assume it will not amount to more than cash considerations or an obscure propsect collection.

Edwards had a phenomenal start to his career with the Cubs. His first three seasons were a sight behold. The 2016 World Series run, both in the regular season and the post season, was built with his labor. Much entertainment and shock came from the sight of his electric heat's contrast with his skeletal frame. Alas, in the span of seconds, Edwards has scarred the bullpen with sin. Each of his recent assignments has brought his followers to a gasp for air. My forgiveness places me in the minority; the majority have no trace of reverence in their black eyes for Carl Edwards. As I weep to my lord Satan, they will rejoice at the bloody smearing over his deeds.

I wish my skeleton friend strength and redemption in San Diego.

This constant burning is exactly why the Hot Stove season satisfies all my desires. For today, I can simulate the bliss that is Hell on Earth. The Chicago Cubs have traded for Nick Castellanos from the Detroit Tigers, in return for two mid-ranked prospects.

The holiest hordes on which to feed with this deadline acquistion, as it pertains to Sammy Sosa's Playhouse, is an elixir of nostalgia. Regardless of Nick Castellanos's skills, which indeed deserve praise, it will be of much interest to the likes of Paul Hauss and his cult that Nick's stance and swing resembles a right-handed mirror of Ken Griffey Jr.'s swing. It goes without saying that blashphemous would a comparison between their abilities; the comparisons are strictly aesthetic.

As for Nicholas's play, we must note that he should be starting in order to maximize his value. He has but one meager year on his contact and I fear Maddon exploit him as he did with Daniel Murphy in the past. Castellanos shocked the milquetoast press with his charges against his home ballpark. I, for one, applaud his boast of confidence and introspective knowledge. Indeed, his home/away splits this season do contrast with his previous career projectory. Wrigley Field's confines should be as friendly as advertised to Nick Castellanos, if the Cubs can create lineups that do him justice.

BURN FOREVER, HOT STOVE FLAMES!

Martin Maldanado's reign of terror in the politically post-geographic North Side has vangquished into the cold of night. His flame was short lived at a mere 4 games played, but his memory shall be drained into all our inner beings amongst the likes of other such Chicago Cubs legends as Ray "Burger" King, Brendan Harris, and So Taguchi. Your spirit shall not be forgotten!

The Houston Astros shall surrender the soul of Tony Kemp in return for Maldanado. Just as the Cubs' new sacrifical lamb was acquired to satisfy the fetish of Theo Epstein to lord over all starting-caliber backup catchers, Tony Kemp's arrival to Chicago no doubt comes at the whims of Joe Maddon's disgusting lust to demand nothing less than all super-utility players. Kemp has toiled in all three outfield positions with spectacular defensive prowess; he has released has wrath at the second base position. An center fielder by trade, the miniscule but wrechedly fast Tony Kemp's acclaimed defense shines the brightest in the outfield, but his quickness has proven to engulf infield projectiles as well as anyone. Expect to see his talents executed frequently on this roster without Addison Russell, but do not set your desires alight for his bat. The Cubs already have superior pinch-hit options to their newest toy.

Still, we wait for the Cubs' truest necessity at the deadline. The Cubs will not displace St. Louis and Milwaukee without a true bullpen upgrade. Every soul knows this truth deep down, except for those who succle the teets of the Ricketts propaganda machine. The opposite of Cubs ownership's claims of poverty is real. They can afford any trade the Yankees can, but they deliberately avoid this choice out of greed. Do not fall for their deception!

At last, we can rest our impatience with the surrealistic enchantment that is the struggle to induct Lee Smith into the Hall of Fame. Cretinous ignorance has kept Smith out of the sacred Halls for ages, allowing the legendary reliever's time on the regulation ballot to perish while new age closers like Mariano Rivera and Trevor Hoffman have waltzed into multidimensional praise. Take me not for a fool, Mariano Rivera is the most beautifully violent closer ever to consume the souls of the ninth inning and my race shall always revere Trevor Hoffman for his nightly summoning of Hell's Bells, but I have eternally observed Chicago Cubs baseball for over a century and cannot sit in apathy without bringing forth a reminder that Lee Smith belongs in the same realm of immortality. His induction into the Hall of Fame last weekend was as overdue as the execution of the archangel Michael.

Lee Smith's 478 saves were the all-time record until the aforementioned Hoffman and Rivera surpassed the great Smith atop the leaderboard of final death. Their save counts exceeding 600 are impressive and pay fine tribute to our dark lord Satan, but we mustn't forget that their careers came after Tony LaRussa and Dennis Eckersley revolutionized the closer position by restricting his call of torment to the souls who dared to walk in the blackness of the ninth inning. Lee Smith accumulated his soul collection by stalking the seventh, eighth, and ninth innings to engulf the flesh and bones of his enemies. On occasion Smith would rise the horror of nightfall as early as the sixth inning. In the seasons where Lee Smith averaged over 100 innings pitched, he collected 28 multi-inning saves on an ERA of 2.86. It was in this respect that his comparisons ought to be enflamed with the torches of Rollie Fingers and a young Dennis Eckersley, both of whom faced no dissident aggression in assaulting Cooperstown. Upon leaving our beloved Cubs an limiting his stabbing and bawling to the lone final inning where the modern closers such as the Sandman find comfort, Smith averaged 37 saves a season with an ERA of 3.07.

Oppressive holy rollers will cite Lee Smith's notorious control issues as a cosmic divider between him and the greatest closers of history. I will not deny that Lee Smith frequently walked his opponents, nor shall I spout any lies about the clogged base paths of his works often striking anxiety in the hearts of supporting spectators. In the modern era of weak wills, Lee likely would have been pulled before he could fully take control of the opposition, but in his era he seized the liberty to diffuse the decay presented by baserunners brought to life by his erratic strike zone. No matter how licks of victory were dangled in front of opposing offensive forces, when all was done Lee Smith made his effective domination known. That it is why Lee Smith will always belong in hallowed gates of Cooperstown.

Satan smiles at the suffering of those who commit sacrilege against pulchritudinous femininity. To clear the earthyl space for All-Star catcher Willson Contreras, the price of finite space has been paid with the currency of Addison Russell's life as a Major League Baseball player... for now. The Christian hegemony has for years burned my sisters as heretics for committing the crime of individuality; the motives of Russell's transgressions are no different. The beautiful flesh of woman is to be enjoyed aesthetically — when it is joined by a spirit as fiery as hell, it is to be cherished obsessively. Addision Russell chose to commit violencce, and for that, he is banished to Iowa! BEGONE!

We have finally entered my favorite time of the baseball season: hot stove season. It is the only time of the season where the flames of our reality reach a climate similar to the most beautiful setting of all, Hell. The Cubs begin the trade season by trading Mike Montgomery to Kansas City in return for Martin Maldonado, in order to satisfy Theo Epstein's uncontrollable lust for the universe's most complete collection of backup catchers who ought to be starting.

HUMAN AGGRESSION
June 16, 2019
 

The series in Colorado showed an ugly aside of humanity. Forgiveness is useless without change. Look to Javier Baez for your model.