Observers of Twitter, home to Hot Sports Opinions, will be relieved that last night’s Jeff Passan-Old Hoss Radbourn contretemps have been resolved to the satisfaction of all vested parties. Admire the Glasnost:

The cockles, they’re heating up. Of course, one particular dry-gulcher is unimpressed:

This, a thousand times. I have long suspected that “Jeff Passan” is actually Blackguard Sinistero, that scoundrel of low breeding whose sole purpose is to steal the merchant’s jewels, the vicar’s standing and the duchess’s maidenhood.

In which images of the base-balling Reuschel brothers, Rick and Paul, are paired with befitting movie titles …

(Image courtesy of Timlandia)

On the meat-strewn convention floor, everything is decided by a mere preponderance, which, by design, lends itself to social discord and raised fists in the streets of America, which, in turn, leads to an agitated police force, which, in turn, leads to slaughterous crackdowns, which in turn delights the ruling class. And so it is with the nomination hootenanny for “Stainless Steel Meat Hammer.” The piles of dead speak to the rigors of the process, though, being dead, they speak not at all.

Nonetheless the Maximum Culminating Exchequer — the Maximum Culminating Sexchequer — has vetted the list and culled it for the betterment of the State. You may select, at great personal peril, from the following 10 names. So who, expendable citizens, shall be nicknamed “Stainless Steel Meat Hammer”?

Thank you for exercising the franchise.

What we do is assign cool nicknames to players rather than perpetuate the tired, lamewad practice of assigning cool players nicknames. Last time out, Jon Rauch seized the nickname “The Call Is Coming From Inside the House“. So Mr. Rauch 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 …

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Look: A cake made to resemble one of the Brewers’ racing sausages!

On the other hand, the cake is plainly crafted as an homage to Guido, the Italian racing sausage. The problem is that Guido wears no. 3. The faux Guido made out of stupid buttercream frosting is wearing no. 1.

So nice try, “Noah.” Or should I say, “Al Qaeda.”

Among the many losses endured by the Boston Red Sox this offseason, none was so loudly mourned as that of Heidi Watney, NESN’s erstwhile and comely foul-territory reporter. However, as the Internetting Gentleman with the Web-enabled computer may already know, Ms. Watney now has a replacement. Please meet Ms. Jenny Dell. Click to make the image more turgid, swollen, erect, dilated, and puffy:

Just how much of a bawdy minx is Ms. Dell? Well, contrary to appearances, that’s not a Halloween party pictured above; that’s her uncle’s wake. So consider her your clubhouse leader for the 2012 ESPY for “Best Journalism Cans.”

As always and forever, though, make mine Julia Ormond.

In which photos of the base-balling Reuschel brothers, Rick and Paul, are paired with befitting movie titles …

Once upon I time, in these very pages, I posted an RBI Baseball recreation of Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. This would be a very Internetty occasion to link back to that post, but I don’t feel like searching for it. Apropos of this, this way comes an electric rendering of the famous home run by Kirk Gibson, one of our most hilarious MVPs, in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series.

What follows is a thing that delights. What follows is a Thing That Contains Multitudes:

The highlight, you may have noticed, is not the home run itself, but rather what occurs at 8:16, when Gibson, in the words of Vin Scully, makes his leg “quiver like a horse trying to get rid of a troublesome fly.”

The simile, it inspires …

In which photos of the base-balling Reuschel brothers, Rick and Paul, are paired with befitting movie titles …

In which photos of the base-balling Reuschel brothers, Rick and Paul, are paired with befitting movie titles …