Help me with this; I’m lost.

Chicago is now known as our murder capital. Gun-toting, itchy-fingered gang members, as young as 14, daily and nightly murdering and being murdered — children shooting children dead — over nothing more than a sideways glance, the wrong-color shirt, a bag of weed, and, now in at least its 27th year, status-symbol sneakers.

Then there are the “stray bullet” victims of all ages.

And Chicago isn’t much worse than most cities. Among the busiest keepin’-it-real businesses in the ’hood are those that quickly produce “R.I.P” T-shirts carrying a photo of the murdered. Collect ’em all! Trade ’em with your friends, while the supply of friends last.

Last week, the Chicago White Sox were revealed to be forming a paid partnership with Chance the Rapper, assigning him to become the team’s “Ambassador.”

Chance’s real name is Chancelor Bennett; he’s 22, unmarried with a child, grew up in suburban Chicago. His father had been a political operative for Chicago Mayor Harold Washington, then for Illinois Senator Barack Obama and now for Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel.

Chance, who often wears a White Sox cap, was selected to throw out the first pitch in this year’s White Sox home opener.

Beyond that — and far below — Chance records and sells pro forma, no-upside, can’t-expect-better-from-us, women-denigrating, blood-on-the-breeze rap.

It was suggested that I choose from random any of Chance’s songs to get a sense of whom the White Sox would choose as their first “Ambassador” — as if such an appointment by an MLB team is now essential.

I spun the Google wheel and landed on “Smoke Again,” which begins, “l don’t even talk to them on the phone again. Leave in the a.m., on the road again. So, b—h, let’s f–k so I can smoke again. I gotta smoke again, I got s–t to do.”

From there it “grows” more vulgar and, as per the genre, more boastful. Standard dehumanizing gangsta rap — young black men are N—-s”, he’s especially fond of dope and regards young women as a sub-species in over-and-out service to his immediate libidinous whims, especially oral sex.

Don’t take my word for it; look for yourself.

One wonders how MLB’s domestic violence policy, issued just last August, would read in juxtaposition to Chance’s work and his candidacy as payrolled “Ambassador” for an MLB team.

Would Mayor Emanuel, MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred and Chicago Rev. Jesse Jackson recite his lyrics in public?

What about White Sox executive vice president Ken Williams, 52-year-old African-American? Will he publicly support the addition of a young man who publicly and professionally refers to black men as N—-s, and young women as easily discarded sexual junk as “The man we want on our team!”?

Let’s hear, too, from ESPN’s Mike Greenberg and Mike Golic, who last week on their show gave this proposal their full endorsement.

What better way, they enthusiastically reasoned, to grow interest in baseball among the young than to hook a team to Chance? What better way, they added, to sell team merchandise?

If that’s not just standard media pandering — if they’d choose such artistry to create interest in sports among the kids in their lives — then Golic and Greenberg will have no trouble demonstrating the courage of their conviction: Read on air the words to “Keep Smoking”; cite it as evidence of how he’ll stimulate interest in the White Sox among Chicago youth.

For crying out loud, how much faster can we run backwards? How much lower can we fall? And, for what it’s worth, Chance, in September, became the father of a daughter.

Francesa bogeys another

The wind-blown Masters often was like watching mortals row against the tide. Some memorable moments:

Immortal Mike Francesa again granted listeners the privilege of listening to him watch. That’s always fun because no matter the sport or any issue, he’s always dead wrong about things he couldn’t possibly know, yet still pretends he knows — as if we don’t know!

Friday, he affirmatively declared his imaginary pal, “Phil” — the golfer we peons know as Phil Mickelson — “will make the cut.”

Wham! The next instant Mickelson hit in the water — er, found the water — then missed the cut!

By the way, if Francesa weren’t so modest, he’d reveal that he was the one to suggest to Mickelson he play left-handed.

On the flip side, Westwood One Radio’s broadcast, heard on SiriusXM’s PGA channel, featured enchanting descriptions by 58-year-old Maureen Madill, an amateur champ from Northern Ireland. Her call of Jordan Spieth’s putt, Friday, on the fourth:

“It’s like putting down a marble staircase. It has a couple of S-bends in it. It’s 100 feet; anything within 10 feet would be exemplary.

“And the ball is traveling, on and on. I cannot believe it — this is absolutely masterful in every way; I just can hardly believe my eyes. He has laid it down to 3 feet below the hole, the absolutely perfect, perfect putt!”

Speaking of Spieth, while he’s easy to root for — and Sunday I bled for him when he butchered 12 — the TV folks won’t say it, but they see what we see: He’s slow to play. You can roast a chicken between shots.

Comcast exec surely not complaining about fees

Last week Comcast, which raised subscriber fees just after dropping YES, absurdly claimed it dumped the Yankees’ network to save its customers money. Also, last week, Bloomberg News reported that Comcast CFO Michael Cavanagh is the best-compensated exec of a publicly traded company. Hired in May, he has been paid $40.6 million.

Saturday on YES, David Cone and CC Sabathia teamed for a terrific show-and-tell on the difference between a thrower — how Sabathia used to pitch — and a pitcher — how Sabathia was pitching vs. Detroit. Cone spoke it; Sabathia demonstrated.

Better-idea local news stuff: Russ Salzberg’s Ch. 5 two-parter, last week, with heart-and-soul boxing trainer Teddy Atlas.

What’s that? The Mets and MLB made a jerk of you? You were among those who bought tickets to Saturday’s game but didn’t show figuring they’d never play on such a rainy, cold, windy early April night? Don’t tell me; tell Rob “It’s Not Gambling” Manfred. The bigger fools might’ve been those who did attend.

When TV doesn’t rule: Ten minutes of the third period of Saturday’s Red Wings-Rangers on MSG were played without a whistle, no stops in play. And only a goal ended it.

So if we’re so often told that a .218 hitter just “took” the pitcher “the other way,” why can’t a .290 hitter do that against the shift?