The following guest article is written by Mariners Rants, who you can follow on Twitter @MarinersRants if so inclined. Be aware that the uncensored commentary below is not safe for work and certainly not for the faint of heart. The views and opinions expressed by Mariners Rants do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the Seattle Sportsnet staff.

What in the holy fuck are you motherfuckers doing out there? I mean, seriously. What in the complete and utter shit is this mess?

Here we are 54 fucking games into this godforsaken season and you assholes have somehow only managed to scratch together 24 fucking wins. Your own goddamn manager told us to be patient until the 50-game mark. Wait for 50 games, he advised, before you judge this ball club. THAT WAS FOUR GAMES AGO! And you guys are shit! It’s not hard to see. You. Are. Shit. You haven’t won shit, you can’t hit shit, your relievers pitch like shit, and everyone watching you play feels like shit because of the backasswards bullshit you’ve put us through. It’s a fucking monsoon of pure, unadulterated shit!

Where does anyone even begin when attempting to sift through all the flaws this team has displayed in the season’s first two months?

Let’s start with the team’s highest-paid player, Robinson Fucking Cano. What the fuck, Robinson? You’re hitting .248 and playing every game like you shut down Peso’s the night before, pounded a 40 when you woke up, then dragged yourself to the park on fumes. It’s a damn embarrassment. You’re making $240 million and performing like a back-alley hooker.

And for the love of god, stop swinging at pitches outside the strike zone! It’d be one thing if you were Mike Zunino, who can’t tell a strike from a clown with a thumb up its ass, but you’re not: you’re Robinson Motherfucking Cano. You’re one of the GREATEST BASEBALL PLAYERS ON THIS ENTIRE MOTHERFUCKING EARTH. You don’t need to flail away at crap breaking balls in the dirt, at two-seamers tailing out of the zone, at heaters above your shoulders. You’re better than that. You know how to own the plate. You’ve drawn your fair share of walks before. You don’t need to do it all. Just do enough. Pull your head out of your anus and be the player we know you can be. Christ.

Fernando Rodney. It’s your turn, you son of a bitch.

Your ass couldn’t hold a lead if someone glued it to your fucking hands right now. What the fuck are you doing out there? Like, seriously, what is going through your mind when you throw a pitch? What do you say to yourself to so badly screw up the art of playing catch? It’s got to be something along the lines of, “Hey, Fernando, let’s try not to toss this one into the suite level, okay?” Because you sure as shit can’t find the plate.

And on the rare occasion that you do find the plate, your strikes are being deposited between a pair of shitty defensive outfielders that your manager has substituted into the game for reasons unknown. I almost have some sympathy for you. You have to pitch knowing you have the likes of Rickie Weeks out there trying to field the blistering line drives you’ll inevitably relinquish. That’s not fucking fair. But it’s reality. And if you could strike some of these dickheads out, or maybe even try giving up a ground ball for a change, this wouldn’t be a problem. So fuck sympathy.

Speaking of Weeks, what in the living hell is that motherfucker still doing on a major league roster? He is beyond done. He can’t hit, he can’t field, and he’s spent so much time in the goddamn weight room inflating himself to the size of a fucking nose tackle that he won’t be able to run in a month or two. What does he have on Lloyd McClendon that keeps him employed? Are there pictures we need to know about? Is there a sex tape out there? What is it? What can we do to help? Just let us know, Lloyd, and we’ll free you from Rickie’s tyranny.

Remember when all the fanboys were collectively jerking one another off the day we signed Weeks? How the tables have turned. He’ll crush lefties, they claimed. He’s “crushing” lefties to the tune of a .244 average. In fairness, though, .244 does qualify as “crushing” when the rat bastard is batting .083 against right-handers. EIGHTY-FUCKING-THREE! Who the fuck does that?! He wasn’t even supposed to face righties!

But you know what happens every time we send Weeks up to pinch-hit? The opposing manager makes a call to the bullpen and brings in a motherfucking righty because, wouldn’t you know it, Weeks starts weeping like a baby whenever he sees one. The strategy isn’t fucking working, Lloyd! You pinch-hit Weeks, they counter with a right-handed arm, Weeks strikes out, and then – here comes the kicker – you have to put the motherfucker in the field late in the game because YOU HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE! Unless you want to empty your bench to sub for one fucking guy, you have to put Weeks in on defense. And Weeks is horrible on defense. He is James Hardenesque on defense. There is no “D” in “Rickie Fucking Weeks” for a reason, Lloyd. He is killing this team. And it needs to fucking end.

Dustin Ackley. You’re not even worth my words, Ackley. All you get is an evil fucking glare. Picture an evil glare penetrating your clusterfuck of a beard and piercing your soul. That’s what you get. You know what you’re doing wrong. You know, because it’s EVERYTHING.

James Paxton, why are you always hurt? You have a surplus of talent mixed with all the testicular fortitude of the kid everyone bullied on the playground in elementary school. Your teammates would probably enjoy patting you on the back after a great outing, but the resulting impact might put you on the disabled list. Stop fucking around and injuring yourself. We need your goofy-looking Canadian ass if we even want to think about the postseason, so put your big boy pants on, nut up, and stay healthy.

Hisashi Iwakuma, I’d give you the same treatment as Paxton, but who knows what we’ll get when you finally return from the DL. Since the end of last season, you’ve been a shell of the pitcher you once were. There’s nothing to suggest that will change anytime soon. We were all fucking idiots to ignore the flashing red warning signs you emitted back in September, and now here we are shrugging our shoulders over whether your return will help or hinder this squad. We want the old Iwakuma, not this 89-mile-per-hour-tossing corpse of an arm we’ve seen of late.

There’s more.

Justin Ruggiano, it’s not your fault. Yeah, you botched some fly balls badly. Yeah, you didn’t hit much. Yeah, you kind of had that frustrated, overmatched look on your face at all times. But you became a scapegoat for this team’s problems. You became the fall guy for a bunch of bench players that should be playing in Japan. Why’d it have to be you? It’s not right. We’d rather have you over Weeks, I promise you that. But you read what was just written about Weeks, so unfortunately that’s not saying much.

Chris Taylor, I know you’re at Tacoma right now, but get your goddamn shit together and start playing ball like a big leaguer. We need you to be this team’s shortstop. Not because Brad Miller can’t perform. Brad Miller’s great. Brad Miller is actually turning into something resembling a baseball player. No, we need Brad Miller to become our center fielder. Because, surprisingly, Brad Miller isn’t a horrible defensive outfielder. And, just as surprisingly, when we shifted him to the outfield, he started crushing the ball. So hurry up and get your shit in gear, Taylor, so we can get our best outfielder back.

And as for the rest of you fucks, this isn’t over. We’re far from the end of this. This is supposed to be the year. Do not fuck this up for us. This isn’t about you anymore. This is bigger than you. Can you even comprehend what this fan base has been through for four decades now? It’s been absolute fucking hell. So don’t waltz through this season collecting paychecks and crushing dreams like it’s no big deal. It’s a really big fucking deal! You’re killing us. You’re really killing us. From here on out, you have one job. Just one. We’ll make it simple for you. One fucking job: STOP SUCKING.

Fucking shit, Mariners.