It’s time for another installment of “Shorter Baseball Columnists,” in which we read mainstream baseball columnists and marginalized bloggers like Murray Chass so you don’t have to! Let us begin!

Shorter Bill Plaschke: You won’t believe how many metaphors I’ve come up with to express Frank McCourt’s unpopularity.

Shorter Mike Lupica: You might think this odd, but in the process of writing at length about the AL East, I’m going to mention the Mets and LeBron James more often than I mention the Rays.

Shorter Wallace Matthews: Nick Swisher hit a home run against the Cubs. Take that, White Sox.

Shorter Murray Chass: Omar Minaya was a good GM. I’m pretty sure his mistakes were Jeff Wilpon’s fault.

Shorter Bill Conlin: I think the Rays would do well to move to a city with one of the worst local economies in the world.

Shorter Dan Shaughnessy: Let’s see, where did I put my “Man of the People” britches?

The “Shorter” approach to Internetty commentary traces back, as best as one can tell, to Daniel Davies.

I must say, I enjoyed the following jaunty jaunt …

I’m not saying the Twins should hire this guy to save the franchise on the diamond and in the broadcast booth, but that happens to be precisely what I’m saying. I think we can all agree that the vocal intonations native to the Upper Midwest are the smoothest of smooth jazz.

Last night, yours truly attended this Yanks-Cubs ritualized beating at Wrigley Field. While the game was somewhat forgettable, a couple of lasting daguerreotypes snapped by yours truly offer more to the curators of this, our stupid civilization.

First we have a pregnant woman smoking just outside the ballpark!

The pregnant woman smoking: She’s in the background, roughly in the middle in a white top. You perhaps can’t tell from the grainy, sepia-toned image provided, but, yes, that’s a cigarette in her hand and the next generation — quite possibly the Pepsi Generation — in her leathery womb. Trust me. Am I judging her? Of course not. In the service of a reduced and, by extension, less painful birth weight, one must do what one must.

Next we have another awful photo. This one is of a kid in a Milton Bradley jersey!

You perhaps can’t tell from the grainy, sepia-toned image provided, but, yes, that’s a Milton Bradley jersey. Trust me. Why is the photo so terrible? Blame the Boost Mobile product line. Or blame the fact that I was trying to be somewhat discreet. Or blame the wholesome, nutritious alcohol coursing through my organ systems. Still, the fact remains: there’s a Cub fan — a Cub fan who is presumably too young for irony — who still wears a Milton Bradley jersey!

Crappy pictures spoken here!

What follows is the work of a YouTube auteur that’s titled, “Dancing Baseball With Mustache.” In this, the age of half-truths, the age in which deception has become hardwired instinct, it warms the heart cockles to learn that, yes, this is indeed a video of a dancing baseball with mustache. In fact, this baseball does what he does — i.e., dances while wearing a mustache on his fake face and a mangled farmer’s tan on his adorable grafted arms — for almost five full minutes. Some might call that boring. In turn, some might call that high treason.

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to watch almost five full minutes of a Dancing Baseball With Mustache, then that is what we do …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3O2LMBcp9ss

Letters of Note, which traffics in noteworthy letters, has unearthed a baseball-ing document from way back yonder in 1898, when men were men and diseases were just, just great. The subject of the missive in question? Sporting gentleman John T. Brush wanted to rid our fair game of the maledictions and impieties common to those who were not raised right-wise.

By all means, click, embiggen and quaff deeply:

What is most pleasing about this letter is that Mr. Brush takes pains to quote the salty (yet, to these ears, soaringly beautiful) phrasings of the time. Because of Mr. Brush’s meticulous cataloging, fans of the era would know that when a baseball-ist quipped, say, “I f****d your mother, you sister, your wife,” he was indulging in ruffian’s talk and was quite likely a cad and a masher. Lest there be any confusion about that.

So it turns out that not all about the Gilded Age was gilded. You big asshole.

I’ve long maintained that “Baby Leopard” should be someone’s nickname. And now that the following daguerreotype has been loaded down onto and into my Internet computer keyboard and attached reflective screen, I am even more steadfast in that belief …

You can often identify a Great Man of History by the pearl-handled revolver he keeps tucked in his spats or the unfailing fact that, when posting for photographic images, he places the fingers of his dominant hand, which are sturdy but conclusively not hot-doggish, just within the lapels of his camelhair topcoat, between the fourth and fifth gold lamé buttons. In the absence of such evidence, you can identify a Great Man of History by the heirloom chalice in his grasp, the baby leopard on his arm and the brassy paid whore in his memory. That right-wise John McGraw, he was a Great Man of History!

The lesson, lads? One does not simply walk into Mordor. Unless one is John McGraw.

H/T: The lot of you, really.

If the image above is to be believed, then it’s a not-at-all-pleased Vin Mazzaro and not your smiling grandpa who waits for you on the other side. Mr. Mazzaro, of course, is famous in these pages for enduring this particular conga line of indignities.

You may also recall that Mr. Mazzaro was dispatched to the bus-and-roommates league shortly after that impossibly grim turn of events. Well, Mr. Mazzaro is back under the brighter lights and higher per diems of Kansas City, and in his most recent outing he fared quite well. But then there’s this caption …

Royals starter Vin Mazzaro scattered five hits over seven innings and lowered his ERA to 10.80.

Seven scoreless and the ERA is still 10.80. Not even the steady urine stream of a giant god-man can extinguish these smoldering embers.

I don’t want to go entirely overboard just yet because the 35th anniversary of The Day The White Sox Wore Shorts isn’t until August 8. But, in the service of whetting the appetites of those who appreciate the breadth of human beauty and endeavor, here’s just a taste. A delicious, decadent, pulsating, sexy taste …

Now go and tell the jurisdictional authorities that you’ve met your recommended daily allowance for dignity.

Here’s Gaylord Perry, crafty righty nonpareil, looking at something …

If not for the faint smirk and baseball clothes, this could be mistaken for the contrived far-off looks common to college-rock liner note photos from the 1986-92 Blue Period. Instead, it’s Gaylord Perry drinking deeply of something aloft and just off stage. What could it be? To this end, some guesses that, in the collective, will prove that a best guess can also be a terrible guess. Gaylord Perry is looking at …

The grim and pointless Buster Posey injury has, of course, served as kindling most flammable for a debate over the ritual abuse of catchers. As for me, when I want to watch football, I watch football. So there.

Still, unsanctioned beatings have an aesthetics to them. Do you prefer the Scott Cousins shoulder-block, or do you prefer the Ty Cobb approach, which, I must assume, is secretly referred to as the “Spikes-High Maximum Shotokan Breadbasket Konk-Smacky.” Or, if you prefer, the “”Spikes-High Maximum Shotokan Breadbasket Konky-Smack!” In either case, regard and dig what Life Magazine purveys …

And the people say: !@#$%&.

(Well meaning and grateful takeout slide: BBTF)