Names have been placed into nomination, and fierce, charged, brawny, rippled, turgid, veiny, sweat-kissed back-channel negotiations have trimmed the list down to 10. Here, then, are your fortunate nominees for the nickname of “Victorian Sex Rebel.” Interested in the spittle-flecked arguments for or against the hopefuls in question? Don your parliamentarian capris and wade into the nomination thread. Then and as always, vote like no one’s watching …

The Diebold Robot and his Lidless Eye thank you for contributing to the appearance of honest democracy.

Recently, we were chagrined to report on the grim inner workings that led to The Logo That Killed America. Today, it is with grievous regret that we must present to you the next deadly step: The Hat That Killed America …

Not since the penis of that man on the subway has there been such an unwelcome reveal. Godspeed, Marlins rooters. Godspeed.

As tonight’s Daguerreotype of the Evening will prove beyond doubting, the Distinguished Rooter is not averse to the well-timed profane gesture utilizing the greatest of fingers. Moreover, the Distinguished Rooter also possesses a preternatural awareness of the mascot’s downward plane of vision, and at times he — the Distinguished Rooter, that is — can wield this preternatural awareness to devastating effect …

(Bird-flip of kindness: Imgur)

And there’s not much more to say, is there? These Ports of Stockton, they are good at celebrating.

Our ongoing quest, in the manner of the noble knight-errant, is to assign players to cool nicknames rather than indulge in the tired, shopworn paradigm of assigning nicknames to cool players.

First, though, a brief jaunt through our Nickname Seeks Player Vaulted Halls of Honor:

“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

The nickname up for grabs in this episode? It’s “Victorian Sex Rebel”!

The writer was reading a review of this book, and his first thought was not, “This is potentially an important addition to existing socio-historical scholarship.” Rather, his first thought was, “‘Victorian Sex Rebel’ would make a fine nickname.” And so it is.

Denotations, Connotations, Implications, Intimations, and Incriminations:

The Victorian era was, of course, a time of restrained passions. One did not do certain things in polite company. Sometimes, one did not do anything in polite company. Indeed, for the bodice-ripper to exist, there must first be the binding oppression of the bodice itself.

So the Victorian Sex Rebel was one whose mighty will, heart and loins could not be harnessed by the times. Or it could be someone whose contrived image was at odds with his inner malaise. Something like that.

Prototypes from Baseball’s Gauzy Past:

Bo Belinsky made baseball love to innumerable foxy ladies while the 60s were still the 50s. Joe DiMaggio affected an image of impossible grace even though he was, at heart, something of a miserable weirdo. A pilot killed a drunken Lon Koenecke with a fire extinguisher. So there was at least something Victorian Sex Rebellish about Mr. Koenecke, since I can’t imagine that being killed by a pilot with a fire extinguisher was ever a thing no matter how unruly the times.

Guiding, Determinative Query:

Which current major-league player should be nicknamed “Victorian Sex Rebel”?

The convention floor, which, appropriately enough, is lousy with sex hammocks, is now open for nominations …

Here at NotGraphs, our fondness for base-and-ball-themed cakes is what all the kids are talking about. So tonight it is with enthusiasm that is at once half-bridled and half-unbridled that the writer presents your Daguerreotype of the Evening …

As you can plainly see, the above cake recreates some randy grabbing on the part of Mr. Rodriguez — a sequence of decisions and violations known among the moneyed and genteel as, “The Presumptuous Cad and His Discontents.”

(Unsolicited fondling: Sports Pickle)

There is a time for build-up, for laying the foundation for the dramatic arc. There is a time for rhapsodizing, for setting to thunderous poetry the miracles of this life. And there is a time stand in quiet, humble, human reverence as the marvels unfold. This is one of those times …

And now let us weep.

Via Deadly Don Hammack comes this find by Nats Enquirer. This find is also, quite understandably, your Daguerreotype of the Evening:

The grainy, sepia-toned image you see above, which was created using silver halide, heated mercury, cold-rolled cladding, and a dipping solution of sodium thiosulfate, is of the lotto ads at tonight’s Phillies-Nats tilt (and also what appear to be some lovely geraniums). The discerner will observe that the Pennsylvania Lotto would seem to be claiming that in excess of 1.2 billion clams and or pieces of cheddar are in play at the moment. But hold everything!

MASN’s F.P. Santangelo pointed out during Tuesday night’s Nats-Phillies broadcast on MASN that members of the Nationals bullpen had messed with the jackpot numbers on the PowerBall and MegaMillions boards out in the visitors bullpen at Citizens Bank Park. And suddenly, a couple of paltry $25 million and $75 million payouts become $521 M and $705 M, respectively.

I’m pretty sure Sarbanes-Oxley expressly forbids the manipulation of powerball boards by NL East relievers — even decidedly merry relievers such as those boasted by the Nationals — but sometimes the law must be broken in the service of comedy jokes.

This I roar: #estimatedannuity

Until last night, a confluence of circumstances known for centuries as “The Gentleman’s Whoops-A-Daisy” was presumed to have been lost to history. Here, for instance, is proof of its diminishing cultural footprint.

Time was when a man of high breeding would often swing for the downs against a tailing pitch and somehow konk it off his own top story for the amusement of all those assembled in the parlor, particularly chaste maidens who seemed likely to birth sons. But, for reasons sufficient unto those scoundrels who oppose things like monarchies and legacy admissions, The Gentleman’s Whoops-A-Daisy has fallen out of fashion. That is, until Mr. Eric Thames of Toronto, Ontario, U.S.A. revived it last night. Bear humble witness:

Thankfully, Mr. Thames was not seriously injured by his curator’s efforts. And solely because of Mr. Thames’s toil, no one in the world will ever die again.

Your Daguerreotype of the Evening? Courtesy of Mark Topkin, it’s the Tampa Bay Rays — clearly hail-fellows-well-met, all of them — about to board a Pullman car bound for New York City. Click and embiggen for a dose of Varsity Sweater Loveliness …

Contrary to appearances, the Rays are not about to waltz into a leafy campus novel centered around the sons of Connecticut gentry and the submerged angst of same. Still, not pictured is team captain Aspen D’Iberville, whose honey-colored bangs and social polish hide the tempests within. Is it possible that his perfect-seeming life is something less than perfect?