If loving you is a crime, then draw-and-quarter Buster Olney and set his remnants ablaze in the public square as punishment for breaking the laws of the heart …
Buster Olney breaks his own ribs from within because his heart beats too mightily, too much without ceasing. The hands that will one day hold you? He uses those meddlesome court orders to dry them.
(Longing, lingering stare at Lana Berry for the original daguerreotype)
Dear Mr. Graphs,
I just woke up from a frankly disturbing dream. I was watching a Tigers-Royals game from behind the plate. The Royals were up, and Kelvin Herrera was the batter. He took a big swing, and I thought I heard the sound of a foul ball. But when I looked back, Herrera’s right knee had completely exploded, with horrifically jagged shards of bone sticking out in every direction. And to make matters worse, it was strike 3. Needless to say, everyone was a bit disturbed at the sight.
What could this dream mean? Was this a premonition?
Sleepless, but not in Seattle,
Big Daddy V
Honorable? Yes. Of course. But it’s the timing that bothers me. What if the Mets go, I don’t know, 18-2 down the stretch, and the Cardinals, Dodgers, Pirates, and, yes, even the Phillies collapse, and the Mets and Braves find themselves in a one-game, wild-card playoff at Citi Field. That guy’s going to feel pretty stupid chanting “LAAA-RYYY” then.
Image credit: Getty Images. Obviously.
Here’s a completely authentic and totally unadulterated message from avant-garde sportsman Max Scherzer’s Twitter account this morning (click to embiggen):
Over the weekend most recent, you may have noticed a foul-smelling interloper in our midst. He is unwelcome. He is a boor. His ripping flatulence has despoiled the taffeta furnishings. We all wish he would go away and leave us to our base-ball.
You know, they call Joe West a cowboy because he is exactly that. For instance, upon discovering that this town was not big enough for both him and the dread cattle-rustler and claim-jumper Doomsday Beans-Doogan, he did away with Mr. Beans-Doogan. So we call upon you, Sire West, to please escort this mouth-breathing intruder off the premises …
Thank you, Joe West. Thank you.
So, turns out, Dale has a funny story, been too embarrassed to tell you all about it till now. Remember when Dale had that crazy day, back in May — when he maxed out on Icers and accidentally smoked crack from a bong, notched an ol’ Save-a-roo-ski, and ended up knocking on the door of a house that looked familiar somewhere late at night, having to pee an’ puke?
Turns out — this is the funny part — that was Dale’s mom’s house.
Called my mom “dude” while rapping on the door. Lucky she wasn’t home.
Because Dale lives by one rule and one rule only — Call Your Mother — I knew she was out of town on little trip she does with the aunties every spring. So, after pukin’ over the porch into the rose bushes, I grabbed the spare key from around back of the house and went in.
The reader will likely know that Kevin Youkilis was recently placed on — and has, even more recently, returned from — paternity leave by the Chicago White Sox. What our Investigative Reporting Investigation Team has learned in the meantime, however, is that Youkilis’ absence was not designed to facilitate his presence at the birth of his first human child. Rather, it allowed him time to sire, bear, and deliver the mustache (pictured above) favored by constables of all seven continents and probably space, too.
As much as Twitter has been brought into the foreground of our social consciousness, it is still in its relative infancy. We use it, we engage it, but are we entirely sure how we should be using it? Moreover, can we glean meaning of our world – and of ourselves – from it?
Twitter user SC_078 offers an attempt to heighten the self-awareness of our Mothersite through this new player in social media:
Mr. _078 – the self-proclaimed “Pussy eating champ of Southern Ohio” – a man who spends most of his Twitter-hours using poor grammar to engage porn stars, raises an interesting question. However, before we can answer it, we must chew it down to the bone. He wouldn’t ask this question at all if he didn’t have some inclination that FanGraphs — blessed be thy name — is actually gay. What would prompt him to jump to such conclusions? We must assume that he believes one of the following to be true:
1. FanGraphs, through its use of advanced metrics and forward-thinking baseball analysis, is somehow championing a homosexual agenda.
2. The writers at FanGraphs, either collectively or through a simple majority, are homosexuals.
3. Mr. _078 finds it proper to use the term “gay” as an adjective to describe having a happy, cheerful demeanor.
4. Mr. _078 finds it proper to use the term “gay” as an adjective to describe something he deems un-useful, unlikable, or uncouth.
I don’t particularly subscribe to any of these credos, but what am I to do? The huddled masses have spoken.
So let us, fair NotGraphs readers, engage in a little self-reflection. It is good for the soul. Let us take a moment, introspect, and conjure the exact reason we are all so gay.
[polldaddy poll=”6528427″]
Apropos of nothing, except the brief abeyance of life’s crushing burdens, here are three lightly annotated passages from the recap of a Baltimore-Brooklyn game that appeared (the recap, not the game) in the September 17th, 1887, edition of the New York Evening Sun (a full page of which one can read here) — upon which recap the author happened while abeying the crushing burdens of his own life, for example.
