Okay, I’ve seen enough of Toronto, thanks.

Sure, I’ll happily pocket last night’s W — a true “team” victory if there ever was one — but that’s enough of this place for now. No more Mr. Sub billboards or impossibly hot beer girls [at least from 1,463 miles away] or Neil Peart drum solos.

Playing the Blue Jays has officially become the equivalent of running headlong through some George Romero film. Kick one of the zombies in the head, and up pops Shea Hillenbrand to bite your elbows. Mow down Gregg Zaun with a semi-automatic, and suddenly Frank Catalanotto’s busting through the door of your makeshift hideout. You can’t keep these f–kers down, basically, so I’m glad to see us beating our feet to play the Tigers. Hell, at what other point in my life will a flight to Detroit actually inspire happiness?

I went into last night expecting all flavors of hell to rain down upon us. But somehow, we did most of the tormenting, building a 7-2 lead on the strength of a couple home runs by Papi, Loretta and Manny — the latter an absolute monkeywhiz of a drive that got outta the park but fast. Chasing Ted Lilly out after four innings? It was almost as if I was on hallucinogens.

But then came the bottom of the fifth. And, like the sun setting on Charlton Heston in The Omega Man, the zombies woke up. All of a sudden it’s 7-6 and I’m feeling my knees give out from under me. It’s happening all over again and there’s nothing we can do to stop them.

And of all places, salvation arrived from our bullpen. Huh? Delcarmen and Van Buren and Foulke holding the Jays at bay for 3.2 innings? Paving the way for the Papel-Bot to come in and shoot lightning bolts from his fingertips and send them all scurrying back to the darkness of their clubhouse? Just friggin’ amazing.

Of course, like all good horror flicks, there were casualties. Mike Lowell has hurt his hammy. Yeah, that’s right. The dreaded hammy injury. As in he could be fine tomorrow morning, or he could be lame until September. We, as baseball fans, must live in dreaded fear of the hammy. It’s the word we never want to hear at the end of a sentence like “Manny’s been complaining of pain in his ______.” And once it appears, like that uncle who refuses to leave until the last Pabst is drained, it’s tough to get rid off. I wish him a speedy recovery. Because we need us some Mike Lowell. Now more than ever.

But whatever. We’re out of Toronto. And we’re not going back until September. Bring on Dmitri Young. Bring the noise.