This is the story I hoped never to write.

In the end, Icarus flew too close to the Minotaur’s groin. In this case, Icarus is Princess Sugar Pickles the moth, and the Minotaur’s groin — or was it the sun? — is Matt Holliday’s handsome ear canal.

I present to you, thanks to what must have been an elaborate series of FOIA requests on the part of FOXSports Midwest, a photo of the corpse of Princess Sugar Pickles, drained of blood and hope:

Even though Princess Sugar Pickles was already battered by her encounter with Holliday’s inhospitable malleus, incus and stapes, she managed to survive the trainers’ ham-fisted attempts to remove her. What then happened to our returning, battle-weary heroine?

The moth was eventually removed from deep in Holliday’s ear after an estimated stay of about ten minutes. When the moth emerged, it was still alive.

At this point, I phoned the Cardinal clubhouse …

And then …

The moth was later killed by someone other than Holliday and placed into a plastic bag, which the outfielder proudly displayed to members of the media Tuesday afternoon.

Woe betide the “man” who has perpetrated this! And I certainly hope “placed into a plastic bag” is shorthand for “ushered over to the other side by a solemn and well attended Viking funeral, promptly followed by a vigorous prosecution of her killer.”

There is but one consoling fact: Mr. Holliday seems to have the proper perspective …

Asked if he killed the moth as retribution, Holliday said, “No I didn’t. I just think so much wisdom was passed onto him that he died with an overflow of wisdom of being inside my head.”

Tonight, pour one out for PSP. Meanwhile, I’ll be getting the crew together for One Last Job^TM.

(Thanks to reader Yirmiyahu and his Sauron-like lidless eye, which sees all, so long as it’s on the Internet.)

What was once a fairly compelling race in the NL Central has devolved into a pants-down spanking as stripped of dramatics as it is of those pants I just mentioned. I tell no tales when I say this GIF of dogs embedded below provides a fairly accurate retelling of what’s unfolded here in the Beer Belt.

Position your cursor over the image below, and then your cursor will transform into the white-gloved hand of Jeeves or perhaps Julie Andrews. At that point you may click, and enjoy the punchline of this sprightly dispatch!

In case you were wondering, this is the moment at which the dog in pursuit gets dry-gulched by the hedgerow.

So congratulations, Brewers. You and your perfect fur the color of Julie Andrews’s gloves …

(Canine-style butt-sniffing: IHC)

Matt Holliday — Handsome Matt Holliday — was forced to depart the Cardinals’ most recent dumb-ass loss because of … a moth in his ear.

Mr. Holliday was visibly distressed by having a moth in his ear, which is quite understandable. Had this been yours truly, I would’ve burst into tears, run screaming in growing concentric circles, and searched desperately for the nearest blunt object, firearm or sharpened rapier that would help me over-murder myself. Mr. Holliday was decidedly more composed, which should surprise no one. In fact, the most excellent Derrick Goold provides the pleasing conclusion to our tale:

Holliday was not available for comment after the game, and the team official was not sure if Holliday would see a doctor or a specialist to determine if the moth did any damage while wedged inside his ear. The moth was still alive when they removed it from the left fielder’s ear. Holliday was said to be feeling fine when he left the ballpark.

He took the moth with him.

He took the moth with him! A lesser man would probably take the moth with him for purposes of grim revenge. However, Mr. Holliday, moth whisperer that he is, surely took the adorable moth home to the kids. On the sprawling yet eco-friendly Holliday estate the moth, whose name is now Princess Sugar Pickles, will live a life of frolicsome delights, one marked by a permanent spot at the foot of the bed, frequent trips to the moth park and scrumptious, fair-trade moth treats on demand.

One day, the Holliday children will be told that Princess Sugar Pickles had to go to a farm in the country. This will mean that Princess Sugar Pickles has died.

What follows is symptomatic of a healthy and confident gentleman:

I’m not going to go overboard and start comparing this nobleman and his velvety yet sturdy hands to Mitch “Charlemagne’s Poise” Davies, but I will say that this is the sort of plucky display that could, under the proper circumstances, lead to a night with Angie Dickinson.

I make no secret of my soaring admiration for all things Jose Bautista, for whom my love is both boundless and without bound. As such I was pleased to learn that Joey Bats is as adept at Internetting as he is at smiting cowhide orbs over fencing.

If you follow Mr. Bautista on Twitter — and, oh, you should — then you’ll be familiar with his frequent use of the #beastmode hash tag. I don’t know what the mode of beasts is, but when Mr. Bautista proclaims he is in said mode, I take him at his word. However, an unfortunate lil’ buckaroo named Tyler Broderick would very much prefer that Mr. Bautista not enter beastmode ever again:

@JoeyBats19 stop using beastmode in every tweet. Only members of the SH goon squad are aloud to do so you faggot

I have no idea what the “SH goon squad” is, but my working assumption is that members in good standing can’t read Dropkick Murphys liner notes without moving their lips. Take it away, Joey Bats …

Douchemode, indeed. Back to you, Tyler!

@JoeyBats19 I didn’t spell anything wrong bro SH stands for South Hadley. My boy Ryan Horstman is gonna be striking your ass out in 4 years

At this point, the discerning observer will discerningly observe that young Tyler is being ridiculed for confusing “aloud” with “allowed,” and not for abbreviating the name of his facking hometown.

What’s next? Naturally, young Tyler, after calling Mr. Bautista an English bundle of sticks, will enter #mewlingbabykittenmode and meow about how Jose Bautista was mean to him.

At this point, I declare, in my finest Judge Lance Ito fashion, two things: One, Jose Bautista is much better at Internetting than Tyler Broderick is, and , two, Ryan Horstman will never, ever strike out Jose Bautista.

Also, despite declarations to the contrary, no, young Tyler, America does not have your back in this one.

First, click to embiggen and then regard and drink deeply of …

I’ve checked with the jurisdictional authorities, and you are permitted to choose one of these ladies for an evening of Chablis, board games and necking. And remember that a gentleman never does two things: use “party” as a verb or discuss the clap.

I choose them all.

Who’s the real Aqua Velva Man, Steve Garvey or Pete Rose?

Is it more Aqua Velva Manly to call time out at the plate because you’re not finished talking about your cologne and then, upon homering, vaguely insult the Brooklyn-born catcher’s ways with the ladies?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXVwzpd99Mc&playnext=1&list=PL745CA8E459F589D0

Or is it more Aqua Velva Manly to quite possibly make Aqua Velva-smelling love to the media just after taking a few cuts?

Only you, readers, can decide who wins this Aqua Velva Men Showdown.

Out of the chaos of the convention floor comes your list of nominees, whittled down by the Maximum Exchequer and a certain oversexed sergeant-at-arms. Who — who! — should be named forevermore “Frog in the Pot”? (As always, please refrain from voting unless you’re a property-owning Episcopalian.)

Conflicted? By all means, read over the convention minutes and let the delegates persuade you with their Hot Parliamentary Action!

I am a Cardinals fan. Our own Jack Moore is a Brewers fan. These are well and good facts and signifiers of a healthy Republic. Still, these allegiances have put us at cross purposes this season, despite the NotGraphs ties — sexy, buckled latex ties — that bind.

Generalissimo Cistulli is fond of calling Mr. Moore “America’s Kid Brother,” but of late I sense a darker side to Jackie Hazelnuts — a side that will be laid bare by the following exchange of Twitter Tweets. I present this unfortunate brannigan with a touch of formality that will call to mind either an Ionesco playscript or Atticus Finch cross-examination of titillating righteousness …

@daynperry Does anyone really doubt that the Brewers will win tonight?

@jh_moore Suck it, Perry. RT @daynperry: Does anyone really doubt that the Brewers will win tonight?

@daynperry @jh_moore I vaguely compliment your team’s hot streak, and that’s the thanks I get?

@jh_moore @daynperry Apparently.

@daynperry @jh_moore You just cost the Brewers the vastly more lucrative People’s Championship.

@jh_moore @daynperry I thought Nyjer Morgan did that a long time ago.

If you know nothing else about our traffic-contriving strategies here at NotGraphs, please know that a Call-to-Action Poll is forthcoming forthwith …

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

The nickname up for grabs in this episode? It’s “Frog in the Pot”!

“Frog in the Pot” comes to us by way of the most excellent Don Malcolm, who coined it, in passing, over in this BBTF thread. Frog in the damn pot!

Denotations, Connotations, Implications, Intimations, and Incriminations:

Mr. Malcolm used it to refer to James Loney, who is like a Frog in the Pot because he’s “slowly fried to death as his decline (the increasing water temperature) proceeds by increments.” So the “slow boil of failure” is one possible defining characteristic of the “Frog in the Pot.”

It could also be a player who looks or sounds funny because “Frog in a Pot” is funny. At least until the burner gets fired up.

As well, if Arnold Lobel’s “Frog and Toad” series is any guide — and it is — then the frog is a stabilizing, clear-headed entity. So think of a team leader who slowly boils to death.

Failing any of that, think of a player who embodies what we talk about when talk about frogs.

Prototypes from Baseball’s Gauzy Past:

If Bill Pulsipher didn’t slowly boil to death, then I don’t know who did. Don Mossi kind of looked like a frog. So did Wally Moon. And Benjie Molina is pretty clearly what we talk about when we talk about frogs.

Guiding, Determinative Query:

Which current major-league player should be nicknamed “Frog in the Pot”?

The convention floor, which is covered in freshly steam-cleaned Oasis Blue shag carpeting, is hereby open for nominations …