A daguerreotype and then 10 observations regarding that daguerreotype …

1 – Gary Carter really was happy all the time, even while being mobbed by the Québécois.

2 – Mr. Carter is in the midst of what you might call “The French-Canadian Captive Embrace.”

3 – The kid atop shoulders is wearing a mime’s shirt.

4 – That other kid is wearing Ron Kittle’s glasses.

5 – You can’t buy those kind of cameras anymore.

6 – The kid in the Playboy shirt raises three possibilities with regard to his upbringing: his parents are burdened with a cultural ignorance of dimensionless dimensions; his parents have a robust sense of humor, or; his parents give not a shit.

7 – The cackling young lady to Mr. Carter’s right, the one with the coconuts smile of a mega-church organist, is surely a disembodied head.

8 – Mr. Carter was not a “velvet rope” type of guy. Hence the bull rope.

9 – That is an actual sunbeam you see. Mr. Carter was followed by them everywhere.

10 – The roof of Stade olympique is actually closed in this photo. What you see is not the sun but rather a heavenly and riverine glow. Mr. Carter was followed by it everywhere.

Names have been placed into nomination, Gomezes have been eaten, and hamburgers have been sexed. Thus, the time for voting is nigh.

The question before you, the obsequious, poo-slathered citizen steeped in delusions of enfranchisement, is this: which player should be nicknamed “Gomez’s Hamburger”? To the Diebold voting machine/Sybian!

Thank you for exercising the franchise, such as it is.

Well done, Kid.

Mr. Gary Carter, 1954-2012 — Husband, father, ballplayer.

(Image courtesy of SI.com)

What we do is assign cool nicknames to players rather than perpetuate the tired, lamewad practice of assigning cool players nicknames. Last time out, Omar Vizquel was swaddled in the nickname “Soft Corinthian Leather.” So Mr. Vizquel 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 …

Read the rest of this entry »

As everyone knows, the smoking of wholesome, restorative tobacco products is essential to success at the office, at the ballpark and in the bedroom. But which brand of gasper, in tandem with a regimen of deep knee bends and whirling dervishes and some time on the vibrating belt machine, will best make a man a man? I need not tell you that when it comes to refreshing taste at a price you can appreciate, Chesterfield is your choice. Unless your choice is Camel.

So which brand of puff should the ambitious youngster have started smoking yesterday? Let’s decide this by American Home Runs Over Wholesome Fences! First up, representing fat-free, vegan Camels is Smoke Cigarettes Hank Aaron!

That’s 755 home runs for Camel! Mildness and great taste? Not impossible, says Smoke Cigarettes Hank Aaron! Can Chesterfield possibly surmount such a deficit? What say you, Smoke Cigarettes Willie Mays?

Whoa, shit! That’s 660 home runs for the cause of Chesterfield, which are great in large part because they are great for you! And now Chesterfield will attempt to take the lead with Smoke Cigarettes Stan Musial!

Triple smoking pleasure? ABC call-to-action? The living fuck, yes!

Add it up, and it’s now 1,135 home runs to 755 home runs, advantage Chesterfield! The hopes of Camel now rest on the rolled-tobacco shoulders of Smoke Cigarettes Roger Maris!

Goodness gracious, he almost did it! That’s 1,030 home runs for Camel, which means Chesterfield is the winner!

Of course, everyone who chooses the Smoking American Lifestyle is the real winner! Want to be strong and heroic like the Smoke Cigarettes Men above? Then smoke cigarettes! Anything to add, Leo Durocher?

“Don’t forget that the right attitude and a well placed cigarette also mean you’ll be drowning in ass!”

The Internetting Gentleman conducts a search …

The Internetting Gentleman unearths a notable search result …

The Internet is: ON.

Today’s billet-doux pairs for us, the made-love-to readers, base-and-ball squads with representative cans and bottles of wholesome, nutritious alcohol. In some cases (pun!), of course, there’s room for Lincoln-Douglas debate as to the fitness of the union, but an abundance of right-wise American vigor is found in the effort. Please click and admire both girth and artifice:

It is pleasing to me, the Bonapartist scribe, that my preferred team, Cardinaux de Saint-Louis, is paired with my preferred existential lubricant, the stout.

In the end, though, this changes nothing …

It is the offseason, and baseball players are not playing baseball. They are instead abetting weathermen. In the case of Derek Holland, his disembodied head and arms are abetting the false certainties of Metroplex weathermen. I can prove it:

GIFSoup

This is the offseason, and baseball players are not playing baseball.

(Chance of scattered thanks: Todd)

In which the current straits of the New York Mets and their discontents are best communicated through the ghoulish works of Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes.

As you shall soon see, being a Mets fan in 2012 is not unlike being eaten by a god or ritually slaughtered by a French butcher …

It is like being eaten by a god.

Read the rest of this entry »