So the Yankees - the fourth-place Yankees - get to watch the Angels celebrate clinching in front of them. One gets the feeling that George Steinbrenner is stirring uneasily in his sleep, much like unto a Lovecraftian abomination woken from aeons of deathless slumber to visit devastation on the world when suitably provoked by dire circumstance.
Seriously. Just add a few tentacles, maybe an apostrophe and some commas, and it's perfect. Perfect.
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