My mother always told me, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. So please enjoy the next 20 inches of blank column space to doodle with as you please. Or cut out eye holes and wear it as a paper bag. Get creative.

Have at it.

Still here?

Really?

Fine.

Avert your eyes, Ma. We're about to discuss the Red Sox.

What is there left to say? It's Groundhog Day, except the next time the alarm goes off to the sounds of Sonny and Cher, just pull the covers over your head and stay there for the rest of the day. If you're lucky, maybe you'll suffocate.

Watching this team no longer makes a lick of sense. The Sox took two of three from the Yankees in the Bronx. They followed with two more against the Tigers. Despite our better judgment, somewhere deep down in that little remaining pit of optimism that sits just beneath our black hearts, we hoped against hope they were actually embarking on a roll.

And hey, guess what — the awful Twins are coming to town! They're 16 games under .500 and just percentage points away from owning the worst record in the American League. Just what the doctor ordered!

Except now that same doctor is scrambling for the electric paddles — pausing ever so slightly in consideration of humanely not resuscitating — because the last two nights happened.

Dropping the series opener 5-0 while getting two-hit by Sam Deduno and a couple of relievers was bad enough. But last night took the cake (which is poisonous, by the way).

The Sox recorded 14 hits. They got a three-run homer from Carl Crawford after a gift drop of a foul pop-up by Justin Morneau. They had the go-ahead run on second in the seventh, eighth (bases loaded with one out) and ninth. They failed to score every time.

By the time Darin Mastroianni's seemingly catchable double dropped just beyond the reach of Cody Ross in right in the 10th, the result was pretty much a foregone conclusion. One batter after Will Middlebrooks made an excellent diving catch on a sacrifice bunt attempt, Vicente Padilla served up the go-ahead single to Jamey Carroll.

The Sox then went 1-2-3, and here we are dissecting another loss by a team that is now closer to the Seattle Mariners in the overall standings than the fanciful second wild card spot, which is hand delivered by a woodland nymph riding a unicorn.

“Talent can only go so far,” Ross said. “You have to figure out ways to win. There's a difference between being a really talented group and being a winning group. On paper it looks like that, but right now it just feels like we're treading water. It's not a good feeling. We've got to snap out of it.”

The odds of them making anything remotely resembling a postseason run dim by the day. Susan Sarandon should accompany the manager to the mound in her nun's habit, because Bobby Valentine looks deader than Sean Penn.

The players are miserable. The fans don't care about much beyond booing Josh Beckett. The writers are trapped in a vortex of repetition that makes Jack Torrance's, “All work and no play,” in “The Shining” appear positively sane.

We're running out of ways to say this season is slowly slurping down a clogged shower drain.

Maybe, at this point, it's best to say nothing at all.
jtomase@bostonherald.com