Kansas City at Twins. Twins 3, Royals 1.

So stick it, suckers!
That's right, Landed Gentry beeyatchs. Think you can come into my house and make fools of my boys? Huh? Well, how about I sic a little Johan Santana on you, how do you like it? He's the President of the United States of Batgirl, and he's not some wussy, do nothing president, like the guy with the eyebrows and the dog in Clear and Present Danger. He's like a Harrison freakin' Ford president, like if you're going to hijack his plane to hold him hostage in order to get crazy-ass Russian generals released from jail, well, first off, that crazy-ass Russian general is going to get shot, like a lot, and secondly Harrison Ford is going to kick your ass and the very last words you're going to hear are him snarling, "Get off my plane," before he throws you the hell off and you strangle in your own parachute. Hard. That kind of president, my friends.

Okay, okay, I know I might be overreacting, they're the Kansas City Royals and when they win we should give them lots of encouragement and praise, like a toddler who uses the poo poo tron correctly, but, frankly, I can't seem to face up to the facts. I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax. It was all so easy back in June when we were winning all the time yet were completely out of the pennant race—all the pleasure, none of the soul-curdling pain. And the Twins, meanwhile, are like that guy in that new movie where he has to keep his adrenaline going the whole time, it’s like Speed except he's the bus and the speedometer is his heart and also I don't think Sandra Bullock's in it. But the point is, as soon as the adrenaline goes down, the bomb goes off, and the Twins, who just returned from Bitch Soxia to this, are like that. So what I am here to say, and I am speaking to you, Minnesota Twins, is now the games are all important, every single one, from the Yanks to the Devil Rays, to the Ligers, to the Royals again, and Batgirl wants you to keep plunging those adrenaline shots directly into your big ol' small market hearts.

You know who knows this? El Presidente. He showed up to deal tonight, and deal he did, on just a day and a half's rest, too. We've seen some nearly-mortal performances from Supernatural the last few weeks—and for the President, nearly mortal is still good enough to be the best in the league—but this wasn't one them. Two on in the seventh with one out? Qu'est-ce que c'est? Oh, well, here, try to hit this. Can't? Too bad. Please, have a seat. And, while we're at it, you, in the on deck circle? Why don't you just sit back down. Thank you ever so much.

Johan knew he was going to have to pitch his brains out tonight because, other than Michael Cuddyer who apparently didn't get the memo, the Twins offensive players clearly had decided to take a few days off from all the hurly burly and sent surgically-altered animated corpses to the park to play in their stead, and those corpses sure as hell can't hit. Which goes to answer the eternal question—who would win in an epic battle between Royals starting pitchers and animated corpses. Turns out it’s the Royals starting pitchers. Who knew?

So it was Johan's job not to let in any runs, figuring one of the corpses might accidentally make contact eventually, (thank you, Rondell White-corpse), and he performed admirably until Esteban German so rudely dinked a homer off the left field wall. I hate people when they're not polite.

We were sunk then, until the animate-corpse Twins figured out a way to suck and score runs at the same time—GIDP with the bases loaded. That was all Johan needed to kick the Royals off of his plane for good.

It was a heroic performance, worthy of Harrison Ford, of poetry, of song, of—dare I say—Johan Santana. This is what is known in the business as stepping it up. To close, this from genius Batling Twayn, with a little help from Walt Whitman:

O Johan! my Johan! our fearful trip’s not done;
The ship’s not weather’d every rack, the prize we seek’s not won.
The port is near, the crowd you hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding Sox of White,
Have on deck this KC wreck;
We face the Yankees’ might.

O Johan! my Johan! rise up and hear the yells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the victory bells;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the Dome a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Johan! dear Johan!
More laurels upon your head;
It is no dream that on the mound,
You’re the one batters most dread.