Streetwise NotGraphs reader Paul brought the above to our attention, and, well, we’re all better for it.

Is that Mo Vaughn on the left? And Rick Ross on the right? That’s for you to decide. Personally, I think Mo Vaughn is Rick Ross, while David Ortiz might be related to one or both of them.

Paul left us with one additional gem, from Rick Ross and Mo Vaughn’s hit, Luxury Tax, featuring, among others, Lil Wayne:

They say I couldn’t play baseball at all.
And now everyday of my life,
I ball.

Poetry, yo. It’s a beautiful thing.

Head nod out to Paul. A dap greeting, too, perhaps.

Congratulations Mr. Bryce Harper!

You have just been fast-tracked to Double-A and now only one step separates you from Major League glory. I know you have plans to rule MLB with a ruthlessness unseen since the days of Genghis Khan, but before you can do that, you must first conquer Harrisburg.

Yes, Harrisburg. Over the years, this deceptively small Gomorrah that lies between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia has claimed many a promising young soul. You must resist the pull of the Harrisburg fast life. The nightclubs. The beautiful women. The drugs. The celebrity culture.

Avoid it all, lest you end up like Jacobo Sequea. Remember Jacobo Sequea? Of course you don’t. The Harrisburg spotlight proved too much for him. As the story goes: after being thrown out of Harrisburg’s last bar when it closed at 9 pm, the depressed Jacobo made the 20 minute drive on 322 to nearby Hershey, PA where he embarked on a “Leaving Las Vegas” style chocolate binge that saw him consume a commercial shipment of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. He was declared missing by his teammates after failing to report for two games in a row and was found in a roadside Econolodge face-down in a pool of melted Kisses. Luckily, paramedics arrived just in time to revive Sequea, but he entered rehab for chocolate addiction shortly afterward and has not pitched since.

Don’t be like Jacobo Sequea, Mr. Bryce Harper.

Always keep in mind that on a media stage as big as Harrisburg, your every move will be carefully scrutinized. The best advice I can give you is to never go outside unless you absolutely have to. The notorious Harrisburg paparazzi are just waiting for you to slip up. And in a city with as much temptation as Harrisburg, you are bound to slip up if you go outside. Learning to live as a recluse is a valuable skill that will pay dividends when every baseball writer in America hates you for failing to feed their egos by giving them the quotes they want.

Finally, stay focused on the future. Realizing your potential as the biggest douche in the Major Leagues in two years is far more important (and lucrative, of course) than becoming the biggest douche in Harrisburg tomorrow.

The good news is that after Harrisburg, it will only get easier.

I wish you the best of luck and will continue to follow your career closely.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Pennsylvanian

A number of people in the sabermetric community have questioned the wisdom of the Braves’ decision last summer to send away a young and talented shortstop in Yunel Escobar for an old and less-talented shortstop in Alex “Sea Bass” Gonzalez.

Though we oughtn’t draw unnecessarily strong conclusions from one isolated incident, the footage you see thoroughly GIF’d and embedded above might, at the very least, point to some issues within the brain part of the Blue Jay shortstop.

Specifically what you’re seeing is an incident from last Thursday’s Pittsburgh-Toronto game in which Escobar mimicked a throw to first but then — kinda blatantly, really — opted to go ahead and punch former teammate Matt Diaz, instead.

As this YouTube footage shows, it’s likely that Escobar was exacting some sort of revenge for a takeout-type slide executed by Diaz the night before; however, there appears to be nothing particularly out of the ordinary about Diaz’s actions.

Friendly punch throw to Alex Remington for heads-up on this.

I scarcely need to mention this, but Kirk Gibson and his brawny musk, unlike a certain Francis Macomber, do not quake and flee at the sight of a lion. Kirk Gibson and his brawny musk fear no man, beast or godhead. The sprawling African savanna, it is his …

You might wonder what Mr. Gibson, Lord of the African Savanna, does with the captured pitchers you see above. He murders them.

We’re not going to break new tournament ground here. No number one seeds went down, and though Steve Bedrosian was huggable, the Mad Hungarian won out.

So now we’re on to the two seeds. And now an upset becomes more likely. Especially when the high seed looks like he’s sitting on the toilet.

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Peruse MLB.com’s pitching probables section, reader, and you’ll notice that each scheduled pitcher receives a brief, paragraph-long review (much like you see for Houston’s Bud Norris above) regarding his recent performance, season in context, etc.

Peruse MLB.com’s pitching probables for this Wednesday, however, and you’ll be confronted merely by blank space under Charlie Morton’s name.

“What gives?” you’re probably thinking — which, that happens to be the very same question NotGraphs asked of Major League Baseball itself.

“We’re just effing bored of him,” responded MLB’s Head of Public Relations Tom Jenkins via email. “Seriously, we’ve tried to give a crap for, like, his last four or five starts, but now it’s just to where we told our intern, ‘We know how sad it makes you to write those profiles for Morton every fifth day. Probably just get some other work done instead.'”

When asked which other pitchers might receive similar treatment as the season wears on, Jenkins responded immediately with Jon Garland, adding “I don’t really even understand how he’s still a major-league pitcher. As effed up as that organization is, the very presence of Garland might be the most effed up part about it.”

Legal Note: Many of the facts and names in this piece are total fabrications.

They are not always terrifying arid deathscapes with low humidity, hungry fauna and heavy-handed political undertones.

I’ve spent the greater part of the past week consumed entertained by Out of the Park 12, the new baseball simulation computer game by the folks who brought you Out of the Park 11 and ten other quality titles.  Before I send up their meticulous craftsmanship for gentle ridicule, I should disclose that Out of the Park 12 is a really fine game, and I’ve written a review that says as much, in addition to trumpeting my ability to transform the 1977 expansion Seattle Mariners into World Champions.

Obviously, baseball simulators put the power in the gamer’s hands, much in the same way that flight simulators, WOPR, and the Power Glove have in the past.  In my mind, however, one of the most appealing aspects of the genre is that these games tend to create a surreal, shadowy universe where most, but not all, of the usual rules of the baseball world apply.  The experience is almost akin to being thrown into a Bradbury short story where there are still lemonade stands and elementary schools, but the sun only comes out once every seven years.   Only fun!

After all, don’t we all want to visit (but not live in) a universe where the following trade takes place?  (Note: enlargination is vital for appreciating the condensed humor below.  Proceed accordingly.)

In fact, if you happen to organize a small writing group that meets bi-weekly at a local coffee shop, I encourage you to use this picture as a prompt: “write a two page short-short story that takes place on the morning of March 31, 2011, as the city of Chicago lies in rubble.”  Bonus points for including Jim Hendry screaming in anguish at the cloudless sky, a pair of broken eyeglasses in one hand.

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In which the Royal We insert Dick Allen’s name into various works representative of the Western Canon, thus adding to those various works the patina of blessedness.

Today’s episode: A River Runs Through It by Norman MacLean.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by Dick Allen.

This has been the latest installment of Inserting Dick Allen’s Name Into Works of Literature.

The thrilling snake juice investigation continues with the dramatic Part 3! Click here for Part 1 or Part 2.

I woke to see the blonde woman extending an ice pack towards me.

“For your head.”

“Thanks,” I said, still taking the ice pack. “Where are we?”

I looked around to see we were no longer in the helicopter, but instead in some narrow room.

“Um, Tennessee, I think,” she said, peaking over my shoulder.

“Tennessee?” I said, closing my eyes as I pressed the ice gently on my throbbing head.

“Yeah, well, you can’t really reach Illinois without going over Tennessee,” she said with a shrug.

Baffled, I looked over my shoulder to see clouds and mountains slowly moving along.

“We’re in an airplane?”

“I prefer to call it my jet-propelled laboratory,” Dr. Supplies said, entering the cabin. “Billy, I sink you want to see zis.”

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A Photographic Essay: