I regret to be the one to inform you, but baseball as we know it was murdered in 2008. What you’ve been watching in the ensuing three years has been simply the death throes of a game we all love, gasping for air and seizing as it goes into shock…or something (I’m not a doctor; that’s a thing, right?)

“What felled mighty baseball?” you ask, in expectation that in the next paragraph I will tell you. “Surely no one human person is capable of destroying something so fine and beautiful.”

You would be correct. While some might argue that Ryan Braun is killing the game we love so much, baseball was not murdered at the hands of man. No. Baseball was ruined, as most things eventually are, by vampires. Observe:

Read the rest of this entry »

It should come as no surprise to you that Derek Jeter knows what the ladies like. And what the ladies like, particularly after a session of boozy coitus ‘neath a mirrored ceiling, are things they can sell on Ebay or give to their nephews:

Yankees star Derek Jeter, one of New York’s most eligible hunks since his split with longtime gal pal Minka Kelly, is bedding a bevy of beauties in his Trump World Tower bachelor pad — and then coldly sending them home alone with gift baskets of autographed memorabilia.

The Yankees captain’s wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kiss-offs came to light when he mistakenly pulled the stunt twice on the same woman — forgetting she had been an earlier conquest, a pal told The Post.

“Derek has girls stay with him at his apartment in New York, and then he gets them a car to take them home the next day. Waiting in his car is a gift basket containing signed Jeter memorabilia, usually a signed baseball,” the friend dished.

Which brings us to:

Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein writes — or wrote, ca. 1921 — in his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (proposition 6.22) that “the logic of the world which the propositions of logic show in tautologies, mathematics shows in equations.”

In response to — and, perhaps, in spirited negation of — Wittgenstein’s declaration, American baseballing prospect Casey Kelly submits this via his Twitter computer:

To which sentiment Kelly adds in his next Tweet: “Vienna Circle? More like Vienna Apeirogon if you ask me!”

Thank you to Ben Carsley, whose chain the hottest girls in the game are undoubtedly wearing.

Let me lay it on the line . . .

Via Brad Neely’s awesome George Washington cartoon.

Our ongoing quest, in the manner of a noble knight-errant, is to assign cool nicknames to players rather than indulge in the tired, lamewad paradigm of assigning cool players nicknames. Last time out? Jeff Mathis laid authoritative claim to the nickname “Hot Lettuce.” So Mr. Mathis has been added to our Hall of Honouur, which is so stately, so regal, so much itself a celebration of the Norman Conquest, that an extra British-English unstressed “u” is required for proper spelling …

“Bad Miracle” – Wily Mo Peña
“Captain Black Tobacco” – John Danks
“$45 Couch” – Yuniesky Betancourt
“Liván Hernández” – Liván Hernández
“Frog in the Pot” – Carlos Zambrano
“Aqua Velva Man” – Chase Utley
“Victorian Sex Rebel” – John Axford
“Good, Round Friend” – Prince Fielder
“I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass” – Kyle Farnsworth
“Interrobang” – Adrián Beltré
“Turbaconducken” – Ty Wigginton
“Hot Lettuce” – Jeff Mathis

And the nickname now available for purchase? It’s “Gargoyle O’Boyle”!

Denotations, Connotations, Implications, Intimations, and Incriminations:

The nickname “Gargoyle O’Boyle” should evoke for you the late-19th-century and early-20th-century base ball-ist — a man of that blessed time when batting averages and infant-mortality rates kept close numerical quarters. It is a name that suggests a murderous intensity on the part of the base ball-ist, as well as offseasons spent working in the coal mine or astride the blast furnace. It suggests a man for whom base ball is an incurable disease. It suggests bunts, spikes-high stolen bases, games of pinochle played in the dining car, and a grim history of throttled elevator attendants. It suggests a man, full of bale and harm, who will die of too much corn liquor or perhaps a lung complaint. That is to say: It suggests beauty.

Or perhaps, for you, it suggests something else entirely. Whatever.

Prototypes from Baseball’s Gauzy Past:

Ty Cobb is the obvious model for all who would aspire to be Gargoyle O’Boyle. Tony Phillips is a worthy, more recent example, as is Lenny Dykstra. Of course, “Gargoyle O’Boyle” need not be a small-ball fetishist. Are you suggesting Eddie Murray couldn’t have played for John McGraw? Because I’m suggesting no such thing. Woe betide the man who does suggest something like that!

Guiding, Determinative Query:

What current major-league player should be nicknamed “Gargoyle O’Boyle”?

The convention floor, which is filled with actual, palpable misery, is open for nominations …

Louis demonstrates his lefty-handed circle-change.

Comedy giant Louis C.K. did an AMA thread on reddit, which would be familiar to non-reddit readers as an All Questions Answered thread, more or less.

It might have been as awesome as reddit is a horror to read. It’s like going back in time ten years on the internet, which is like going back in time a hundred years in real life. Something about the format promotes boredom. Or at least, that’s my excuse for almost missing this gem, buried in the thread:

Read the rest of this entry »

UPDATE: It appears as though Mr. Cole has been the victim of internetting roguery! Per Tim Williams of Pirate Prospects, Cole has exactly zero Twitter accounts. Sadly, it seems as though our attempt to take pleasure in the frailty of another has been thwarted.

_ _ _ _ _

If you’re not familiar with it, Twitter is an online social networking website that allows users to share status updates — known as “tweets” — with friends and other “followers.”

Tweets can be about anything: about a restaurant you’re at, a sitcom you’re watching, or, for example, how you might quit baseball to dedicate yourself more wholly to America’s favorite psychotropic:

It should be noted immediately that the above could very well be the result of (first-overall draft pick) Gerrit Cole’s Twitter account having been hacked. If that’s the case, a word of advice to Mr. Cole: passwords with letters, numbers, symbols are most secure.

Note: it should also-also be noted that this, in fact, might be Gerrit Cole’s real Twitter account.

H/T: Reader Mike, code name “Mike”

As manuals on youth and young manhood have taught us, the secret to a vital constitution is a regimen of organ meats, deep knee bends and cigarettes. Or, as Ty Cobb has taught us, you can forgo the calisthenics and chow in favor of a one large cigarette that’s brimming with nutrients and wholesome, muscle-building tobacco:

This has been Something I Found on the Internet. This has been your Daguerreotype of the Evening.

Earlier today, Bradley Woodrum treated America not only to his prose stylings, but also to that peculiar joy that only a snowman-shaped mouse cursor can cultivate in a man’s (or, ideally, a woman’s) bosom.

Which, that gave the present author an idea — an idea to which the reader can become privy by meeting me on the other side of the jump.

Read the rest of this entry »

This photo, taken last week during Mr. Reyes’ official introduction to the mighty Marlins of Miami, shows Mr. Reyes, amidst all the pomp and circumstance of this happy occasion, transfixed, his gaze caught on something (or someone) unknown to us in the distance. Assuming that he is not blind or a robot, please answer the following question to the best of your ability: What did he see?

A. The contents of the briefcase from Pulp Fiction.
B.  Krampus.
C. A mirror, causing him to finally see how goofy the new Miami uniforms are.
D. Clifford, the big red dog, doing something inappropriate.

Extra Credit: What could have possibly disgusted Ozzie Guillen enough to provoke this facial outburst?

(Here’s a hint: the answer’s Sean Penn)