It’s that time of year again, when this infernal Wisconsin climate teases us with one last taste of warmth and sun before we are plunged into the white-hued darkness of winter — a time which, fittingly, reflects the beginning of baseball season, rather than the postseason in which we are now ensconced.

It’s that time of year when (at least this season) everyone is suddenly a Cubs fan, or a BoSox fan, even though they can’t tell Damian Jackson from Damian Miller from Bill Mueller from Kevin Millar (I won’t even pretend I’ve met anyone in town who knows a Marlin other than Dontrelle).

It’s that time of year when the economy of Boston reaches Roaring 20’s proportions — solely from sales of t-shirts proclaiming that a certain AL East rival “sucks”.

It’s time for some Yankee Hating.

Countless factors influence the inherent distaste so many simpletons have for my Bronx Bombers, but three stand out: Jealousy, Stupidity, and of course, Stupidity.

The Jealousy I can understand. What self-respecting sports fan wouldn’t be at least a little envious of 26 world championships? There’s a combined 180 years of World Series futility between the Cubbies and BoSox. The great-grandparents of the supposed “fans” of these teams wore “Yankees Suck” bowler hats before the damn Depression. Funny that time period sprung to mind. Just thinking about that kind of a slump is grounds for a Prozac prescription.

So everybody’s covetous of Yankee success. That much we know. And it’s cool. The Yanks have Jeter, the best postseason player in history. You don’t. The Yanks have Mariano Rivera, the best closer in the galaxy. You don’t. The Yanks have an owner who cares more about winning than the bottom line. Cubs fans, you definitely don’t. Oh, right, and the championships. You don’t have those either. It’s OK, don’t fight it. The consuming Jealousy you feel is a completely natural, undeniable human emotion.

So we’ve established that the Jealousy is fine. I can’t hate you for wanting what my team has, even though the good book says you’re hell-bound if you covet your neighbor’s wife, or baseball team.

No, it’s really the Stupidity that annoys me.

The classic anti-Yankee argument goes a little something like this: the Yankees are a detestable team because they buy their players.

Satisfyingly simple, but utterly wrong. And therefore, Stupid.

The list of Yankee homegrown talent: Jeter, Rivera, Andy Pettitte, Alfonso Soriano, Bernie Williams, Jorge Posada, Nick Johnson, Juan Rivera. That’s not counting likely Rookie of the Year Hideki Matusi and devastating reliever/starter Jose Contreras, two stars playing their rookie seasons with the Yanks despite having played 10+ years each overseas.

The list of BoSox homegrown talent: Nomar Garciaparra and Trot Nixon. Jason Varitek, kind of, even though he was drafted twice and never by the BoSox.

Cubs: Mark Prior, Kerry Wood, Carlos Zambrano and Kyle Farnsworth. Not even your beloved Sammy Sosa. Two aces, a serviceable righty, and the best Paul Wilson beat-down artist in the bigs. Nice, but do yourselves a favor: draft and develop a position player.

BoSox composite starting-nine salary (no pitcher + DH) of non-homegrown talent: $36,000,000

Cubbies (with no DH): $52,725,000.

And the Yanks: $21,128,571.

So I guess we’ve debunked that one.

And let’s not forget — let’s NOT forget — that the best player other than Pudge on that other team in the playoffs, the Dontrelles, uh, I mean the Marlins (for whom, amazingly, no bandwagon fans have been spotted), is Mike Lowell, the stellar third baseman the Cubs coveted so desperately before the trade deadline. Yeah, he’s a former Yankee farmhand, too.

And of course, we couldn’t overlook that oh-so-prevalent bandwagon philosophy, the one that claims all Yankee fans are wagon jumpers, just along for the ride (and what a ride it is, let me tell you).

Stupid.

As my enlightened colleague Derek Montgomery pointed out in his Opinion-section column yesterday, there needs to be overwhelming support for a team for there to be a bandwagon to jump on. Here in Madison, 99 percent of the population hates the Yankees: 50 percent because they think they’re BoSox fans, and the other 49 percent because they have nothing better to do. Whatever the breakdown, the anti-pinstripes bandwagon is clearly loaded with tubas and bass drums while its supposed Yankee counterpart is home to a guy with a piccolo.

These Cubs and BoSox fans who have begun sprouting like a Chia Pet doused with Miracle Grow? Bandwagon. Utter bandwagon.

Of course, I meant in no way to imply that there aren’t any real BoSox fans in Madison. Of course there are. To the sizeable population of New Englanders who call this town home, I meant in no way to make it seem like I dislike you, because I don’t.

I hate you.

I hate Nomar (at least partially because he stole Mia Hamm from me). I hate those “Yankees Suck” t-shirts. I really hate Johnny Damon (although I also really hope his head’s okay).

You probably hate me even more.

Here’s the thing, though: this Hatred is authentic; there’s something enormously substantial to it: history. The Yanks-BoSox rivalry is as old as time itself, or at least real close. 100 years of comeback victories and devastating defeats. For most of the past century, one of these teams (usually the Yanks) was winning and the other, consequently, had to be losing. One fan base delighted, the other despondent. Each fan’s own sanity dependent on the other team’s fortunes. It’s cringing when Pedro gets a lead, or when Manny’s hitting with a 3-1 count. It’s not being able to sleep on a Yankee off-day in June because the BoSox picked up half a game in the standings. This Hatred is pure. It’s beautiful.

So, hate if you must, you unabashed Yankee bashers. You’ll cry “salary cap” when the Yanks win the series this year, even though you won’t have to feel the pain the true BoSox fans will. You’ll whine when the Yankees sign Luis Castillo this offseason, even though you have no idea who he is. You’ll never shut up until the Yankees are returned to the ’80s, lost, talentless, and very un-Yankee-like.

But until then, don’t forget: my team’s better than yours. And the Curse of the Bambino is very real.