For those of you (like me) into the aesthetics of athletics, the uniforms worn by the University of Maryland Monday night where a largely discussed topic. Many — like the afore-noted Jay Bilas — were all verklempt, in awe at how the Terrapins ‘ football team could wear such an ugly outfit. Others, like me, were confused at first, but have turned over to the dark side of the weird jerseys.

Enough talking. Observe:

Take it in. Form an opinion. Ready? Okay.

Now, back to Bilas’s tweet. “The 1970’s Astros wouldn’t be caught dead in those uniforms.” Rather than make some sort of judgment of what the 1970’s Astros would or wouldn’t be caught dead in, let’s just take a look at what they were definitely caught alive in, via Dressed to the Nines:

So, what do you think? Which were worse? Or, if you’re crazy, which was better (better as in “more good,” not “less bad”). Personally, I think I can appreciate both. Even though I probably won’t be caught dead in either.

Last night, in the second inning of the Giants-Padres game, San Franciscan Brett Pill hit his first major-league home run in what was — if you can frigging believe it, reader — his first major-league plate appearance.

There was a lot of what you might call joie de vivre, esprit de corps, and other useful French expressions unfolding up and down the length of the Giant dugout in the aftermath of little Brett Pill’s accomplishment.

Perhaps no one felt this joy so acutely, though, as Giant first baseman-cum-elder statesman Aubrey Huff, who, if appearances are to be believed, is, in fact, the birth father of the young Pill.

While there is no conclusive information as of yet regarding Huff’s paternity, the reader should know that our Investigative Reporting Investigation Team has recently acquired a DNA sample from Huff in what is frequently referred to as “the hard way.”

There’s something beautiful about it — something haphazardly Van Gogh-ian. It may have been made by someone who had never decorated a cake before or perhaps an experienced pastry chef newly encumbered by hot-dog fingers. Lo, the pastiche!

Were it not so rough-hewn, were it more touched by choosy artifice, then it would not be what it is, which is Your Johnny Damon Cake of the Day …

Even though I don’t need to tell you that NotGraphs now has a category called “Cakes,” I am nonetheless going to tell you that NotGraphs now has a category called “Cakes.”

(Cake smash: She Walks Softly)

I tried. I really did. I tried my best not to laugh. I told myself, “No, that’s not funny.” But it’s totally funny. I laughed. And then I watched it again. And again. And another time after that. I mean, it’s only 10 seconds long. And I laughed some more.

I even e-mailed the video to a friend of mine. I wanted to gauge her reaction, you know, as someone without the average Canadian male’s sense of humor. Her response:

Watched it 4 times. hahahahahaha

All I needed was the “hahahahahaha.” Validation. She was judge and jury, and the verdict was in: Funny.

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It’s hard to say really what’s best about this photo. First of all, let me set the scene. It’s a Marlins game, sometime between 1993 and now. Not many folks showed up.

With the scene sufficiently set, let’s turn our eyes to what exactly makes the picture great. The black cat no doubt is the focal point. No word yet on if he was tased or tazed or tasered, or however you spell it, but I’m guessing not. Chances are, the right fielder was late in coming out for the top of the inning, and the impressionable youngster was just trying to lend a hand to the homestanding Fish. What a trooper.

The face of the young boy is noteworthy, though I can’t take my eyes off his plunging neckline. Who lets their kid out of the house in such an outfit? (Columnist note: Probably the same ones who let him sit at a Marlins game unattended in the front row.)

The man in the middle acts unimpressed; he’s a Marlins season ticket holder. NOTHING impresses him anymore. Besides, if this cat is any good, he’ll be dealt to the American League in six years for a fishing license and a couple of lures.

That brings us to the woman on the right. Yep, she’s the one that makes the photo. It’s hard to tell if  possible she’s having a laugh, throwing a piece of popcorn down the old hatch, or having a coronary, but one thing about photography that is great is that it doesn’t matter. The look on her face is hilarious.

And for that, ma’am, we here at NotGraphs salute you.

(Props to MLB’s Facebook page for the photo)

Science has proved that inanimate objects, despite not having auditory systems or cognitive faculties, can hear, absorb and contemplate human expressions of anger. The gentleman rises for his morning ablutions, crunches his toes on the leg of his paramour’s museum-quality antique dressing table, calls the museum-quality dressing table a “!@#$%&$#@!%&” and promises to “!@#$%&* kill you if that ever !@#$%*& happens the !@#$ again, !@#$-face.”

As you will soon see, however, Pablo Sandoval, the only hitter in the entire Bay Area, has discovered that one may also extract favors, graces and happy accidents from inanimate objects by directing a few kind words toward them …

The secret to better results at the office, in the gym and in the bedroom? Desires whispered to things made of the dead and the never alive.

Stephen Strasburg is scheduled to make his season debut tonight in Washington, DC, but it’s possible that inclement weather will postpone the game and, subsequently, Strasburg’s first appearance of the year.

Using “instruments” and “data,” the National Weather Service has forecasted things like “flash floods” and “a 100% chance of precipitation” for DC tonight.

That’s one perspective, sure. What does the Wisdom of the Crowds — i.e. the One True Authority — tell us, though? The NotGraphs Department of Matters Entirely Scientific is apparently the only institution forward-thinking enough to facilitate such an endeavor.

Which, you’re welcome, Whole World:

Best of Other (updated at discretion of author):
• A vale of tears.
• Meteorology is a fraud perpetrated upon us, the same as alchemy and phrenology.
• Raining men. Hallelujah!
• Probably what the frigging National Weather Service said, you sultry thing.

What Billy Butler will look like when you see him on September 5th, 2011.

If ever, for the rest of your life, you go to the Royals-A’s game on September 5th, 2011, your experience will assuredly unfold exactly like this:

1. You’ll wake up, entirely healthy, in a small bed in Berkeley, California.

2. You’ll have an apple turnover and Americano at Berkeley’s Caffe Strada. Regarding the turnover, you’ll think, “I wonder how much longer I can eat these for breakfast without consequence?” The answer, unbeknownst to you, is “Slightly over a year ago.”

3. In a brief phone conversation with your wife, she’ll inform you that a husband you both know has left a wife you both know for one of his undergraduate students. Regarding this information, your first and least attractive thought will be “That probably lowers the bar, in terms of my wife’s expectations of me.”

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Without divulging too much about my personal political sympathies, I will admit to being an admirer of Noam Chomsky. In addition to being a man of letters with an impressive oeuvre spanning a wide range of topics, he is a native Philadelphian — something with which I can identify.

This fact recently prompted me to wonder whether Noam Chomsky is a baseball fan and, if so, whether he is a fan of the Phillies, which would be just another reason to add to the already long list of reasons that he is a cool dude. Well, as it turns out, Noam Chomsky’s brain is too big for him to be beholden to any one team. Thanks to the power of Twitter, I was pointed to this transcription of an exchange from his 1993 appearance on the talk show Pozner and Donahue (my efforts to locate video of the show were unsuccessful) in which he discusses the cognitive dissonance that is inherent to being a sports fan:

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The NL Central-champion Milwaukee Brewers recently commemorated their final 2011 trip to Houston by doing what people in Texas so often do, which is dress up like ranch hands and walk around in public. Regard, pilgrim:

Paula Cole once inquired, “Where have all the cowboys gone?” The first and most obvious answer is that, much like anyone else who reached adulthood in the 19th century, they are dead. The second answer, no less obvious on this day, is that they live in Milwaukee and herd not little dogies but rather our fondest dreams.

In any event, a couple of Milwaukee Cowboys merit special recognition. Prince Fielder’s large and provably in charge belt buckle suggests he will soon top the country charts with a song that celebrates the values of the Republic through a homespun narrative of family, God and country. And Ryan Braun — I think that’s Ryan Braun in the fetching boot-length duster — opts for the “High Plains Drifter” look, a look that says, “After I shoot someone at the poker table, I do believe I shall take on a whore.”

(Delicious wagon-train gruel: HBT)