While the Texas Rangers have developed into an enviable and successful organization, one problem remains: the hellscape that is Arlington in August. This is also a problem in other baseball locales, but, for instance, the Diamondbacks parry the crippling heat with a magic roof, and in Miami no one goes to games. So that leaves Texas with their suffering, heat-stroked masses.

On this front, the innovations underway in Qatar can be instructive. Qatar, of course, will host the 2022 World Cup, and Qataris have concerns of their own when it comes to hot-ass weather. Their solution? I’m surprised I even need to say this, but their solution is awesome, awesome, awesome robot clouds.

The linked article depressingly refers to these wondrous things as “blimps,” but — let’s be serious here — these are clearly wizard robot clouds that, in keeping with their magical nature, will not only blot out the sun but also protect us from the winged silverback gorillas that secretly roam our skies with the most sinister of intentions.

So your move, Nolan Ryan and company. Do you want your fans to continue boiling alive by the thousands in your dutch oven of a ballpark? Then do nothing. Do you not want your fans to continue boiling alive by the thousands in your dutch oven of a ballpark? Then make with the robot clouds.

No doubt, you’ve thumbed through Da Vinci’s notebooks and seen crude sketches of this:

That’s the Bottom’s Up beer dispenser, and, much like felt renderings of poker-playing dogs and season one of “Temptation Island,” it’s another of Da Vinci’s dreams for civilization that has been triumphantly realized. This innovation, obviously, will help beer vendors move product, and, much more importantly, it will also bring domestic swill to parched American lips that much faster. So it comes with little surprise that the Red Sox are early adopters of Jesus’s favorite thing ever.

As any good binge drinker knows, it’s the destination, not the journey, and the Bottom’s Up will help get you there faster than something that’s extraordinarily fast plus a tailwind. Until next summer’s release of the Bud Light Lime IV Bag, this will have to do.

If today you watch only one profane video of an Ozzie Guillen impersonator explicating a tale of Jazz-Age pathos, then please, please, please make it this one. Believe me when I say this is buffering time well spent.

(Steely yet grateful gaze: Big League Stew)

That’s Oddibe McDowell! This is one of Oddibe McDowell’s recent water bills! Please enjoy, and I hope you didn’t have any pressing obligations for the rest of the afternoon!

Social-media experts agree: Nothing builds the brand quite like awkward rap. This lesson is not lost on the folks at NESN. Indeed, the Masshole Mothership has, presumably with sanction and advance planning, released this felonious assault against Hip Hop.

Said video does not make me want to drink deeply of Red Sox Nation and its countless tentacles. It does, however, make me want to deliver a solemn apology to DJ Kool Herc for what we have wrought.

Earl Weaver was one of the greatest managers of all-time. He was also, when it comes to the use of profanity, delivered to us straight from the firmament. What follows is perhaps Weaver at his most resplendent. Among the things you will learn: Fleas steal bases, Terry Crowley’s roster spot is an act of almsgiving, and some things are more important than tomato plants. And, in the name of all that is holy, this is not safe for work …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YKxf3OkpJc&playnext=1&list=PL15C099B073554987

And for the kids who prefer things set to the throbbing beats of rave parties, there’s this …

Also:

Tommy Hilfiger, the People’s Preppy, has undertaken a uni reboot for some famous teams, and among those teams is the Yankee-Industrial Complex that is near and dear to us all. Here is what Mr. Hilfiger has wrought:

It’s fine except for the jersey. And what does that jersey even look like? What a failed white rapper would wear to rehab? Something off the back of a member of the soda-jerk’s local? I have no idea.

(Hat tip: Me. Because I found this on the Internet.)

Also:

Joe West has been known to kick the sh*t out of an ungentlemanly scoundrel or three, but he won’t kick the sh*t out of this one …

You’re welcome, Jim Joyce. The Great Ejector has laid aside his abiding and hardwired passion for ejections in order to make a simple, pedestrian out call and clean up the hash you’ve made of history.

Armando Galarraga, perfection is yours. Republic, you are saved.

(Manly hug to Navin, who makes love to Photoshop like few others.)

Remember the taut .gif tale of Adrian Beltre’s visceral hatred of having his head rubbed? If Beltre thought that getting the hell out of Boston would spare his dome from such vicious assaults, then he is gravely mistaken:

Third baseman Adrian Beltre’s torment has already begun and his smooth head is already under siege.

Not surprisingly, shortstop Elvis Andrus is spearheading the attack, but there are plenty of teammates who have caught the contagious compulsion to rub Beltre’s head.

“Oh yeah … a bunch of times,” Andrus said. “He better get used to it. He might kick my tail, but I’m going to do it.”

There’s a lesson in here for Andrus and other would-be assailants: Adrian Beltre does not forget. For instance, you’ll recall that Victor Martinez was the main offender in Boston. Beltre certainly recalls:

“Sometimes I thought about killing him,” Beltre said. “But I thought about it. … I have a family so I didn’t.”

You know how you make jokes and you’re half-kidding? One gets the chilling sense that Beltre is maybe 5% kidding when he says he’d like to murder Victor Martinez and leave his tortured corpse in a shallow grave. Or perhaps put his head on a pike outside the Rangers clubhouse to serve as a warning for all who would emulate his dark ways.

As you may have heard, read or intuited all by yourself, Tim Lincecum is, somewhat famously, particularly svelte as professional athletes go. But it’s certainly not for a lack of trying to join the Great American Conga Line of Morbid Obesity:

He dines regularly at In-N-Out burgers, the popular fast-food burger joints on the West Coast.

His traditional fare?

Three Double-Doubles. Two fries. A chocolate-strawberry shake. Ketchup please, but hold the lettuce and tomatoes.

“I’m not a big vegetable guy,” he says.

Let’s see, three burgers at 590 calories. Two fries at 395 calories. A shake at 590 calories.

The grand total: 3,150 calories.

“I’ve gone away from eating more cheeseburgers,” Lincecum says, “and just adding patties.”

I suppose overzealous drive-thru orders are as much a part of the dedicated herbist’s lifestyle as Steely Dan on vinyl and laughing at hiking trails. So none of this is especially surprising. Something also tells me that, unlike a certain Mr. Maybin, Lincecum could cut a swath through Panda Express and manage not to spend the rest of the day yoked to the throne.