Ian Preuth, a writer for Cincinnati-based ABC affiliate WCPO, has fallen victim to the cacophony that is the ML B trade deadline, fair readers.

The MLB trade deadline rumor mill is a dark place. It is a cavern filled with lies, half-truths, and skullduggery. It is a stone crypt, its cold walls sweating with the acidic juices of misrepresentations and distortions. Ian Preuth has been voted resident dullard of this chasm.

You see, readers, Mr. Prueth was burdened with the simple task of reporting a fairly harmless trade between the Royals of Kansas City and the Reds of Cincinnati. Jonathan Broxton, the slapdash relief pitcher for the aforementioned Royals, was traded to the also-aforementioned Reds.

Mr. Prueth, he of likely poor breeding and undoubtedly a state-school education, was charged with the duty of composing a simple write-up about the transaction. He did an admirable job filling in the necessary details, but he felt something was missing. He wanted to dig deeper into this transaction, to scrape some frost of humanity from the chilling side of baseball we call business. Into the cavern he went.

In what appears to be an endeavor to get the player’s reaction, Mr. Prueth did a search for Mr. Broxton’s Twitter account. He did not find such an account. What he did find was an account for the handle @Brox4AllStarz, an account I know – for a fact, actually – is not Mr. Broxton’s Twitter account. It is a hoax, a ruse, a satirical attempt at humor. One would – and one has, in this case – assume that anyone with a third-grade education could discern that the ramblings in this account do not belong to an actual baseballer, regardless of the steamy inside knowledge possessed by yours truly. Mr. Ian Prueth, a man paid to report on baseball, has no time for such reasoning. Reason is for pussies.

Mr. Preuth, the dunce, chose two excerpts from this account to reference in his article. Behold (full screen-capture available here):

The quotes have since been removed on wcpo.com, presumably by an editor with a non-syphilitic brain.

(h/t to the smart and lovely Cee Angi)

People who are in the business of selling things tell me a man can be judged by his appearance.

While yet another adage claims you should not judge a proverbial book by its just-as-proverbial cover, it is not out of the realm of possibility that you can tell a lot about a man via the way he presents himself. Clothing is something we choose to wear, an outward-facing representation of how we see ourselves and how we want others to see us.

Is it fair then to turn these representations into opinion? Can we really ascertain the true sense of a man simply by his choice and arrangement of garments on his being?

Does a gentleman’s wardrobe really reflect his place in this world?

It appears it does.

(Note: as of this writing, this journalist was unable to procure the brand of hair dye Mr. Millar uses to frost his tips.)

Twins catcher Ryan Doumit can’t catch a break. He gets hit by a pitch, and on the way to take the base he earned through his discomfort, he almost gets uprooted by the batboy.

This was obviously some sort of attempt on Doumit’s life. Even the shortest of glances would reveal that this thug is no boy. FanGraphs lists Doumit at 6’1”, making this bat-adult at least 6’3”.  This “batboy” is clearly a trained assassin, and if it weren’t for some wet grass, he would’ve used what I can only assume to be poison-laced spikes to inject a neurotoxin into Doumit’s leg, causing sudden paralysis and cardiac arrest. If not for the incompetent grounds crew at U.S. Cellular Field, this Ty Cobb of hired killers would have collected his bounty and retired to a village in – let’s say – Argentina.

Doumit, seemingly aware of the bounty on his head, simply shrugs off this event. This isn’t the first time he’s had a brush with death, and it wouldn’t be the last. His old boss Johnny Three Eyes obviously wasn’t going to stop until one of them was dead. Doumit gives the guerilla an attaboy pat on the behind in recognition of his efforts. It can’t be that easy to infiltrate a major-league ballpark, after all.

Doumit finishes his stroll to first, his mind concocting his next move. Christ, he hadn’t had this much heat on him since he botched that numbers job in Monaco.

Fair NotGraphs Readers;

Today is a pretty shitty day.

I’ve spent the morning searching for a way to heighten spirits as much as I could, all things being considered. Being at a loss for ideas, the best thing I could come up with is Carson Cistulli, our fearful leader, dressed as Katy Perry.

I wish you all a safe and fun weekend. Be excellent to each other.

The musical rock-and-roll group They Might Be Giants, dork anthem pioneers, said in their song Kiss Me, Son of God:

“I built a little empire out of some crazy garbage

Called the blood of the exploited working class.”

I’m not 100% sure on what that exactly means, but I’m pretty sure it’s some sort of metaphor. More specifically, it could be some sort of metaphor about capitalism.

People on my television have told me that capitalism is the backbone of our nation. As an employee of a Fortune 500 company, I have signed a written commitment stating that I believe this to be true. What can I say? My hands are tied.

As a newly-minted champion of capitalism, I feel I must divulge something. You, the consumer, have no original ideas or thoughts. We’ve thought of them for you already, long ago. Our great trick is allowing you to believe that you are creating virgin opinions, un-probed by the long member of industry. That last sentence I wrote? It was constructed in the 1970s by powerful men (always men) wearing fine Italian slacks.

The German social critics Adorno and Horkheimer wrote in their seminal work The Dialectic of the Enlightenment:

“Even the aesthetic activities of political opposites are one in their enthusiastic obedience to the rhythm of the iron system.”

A truer statement has never been uttered by neo-Marxist heathens.

Nothing you do or say matters. Every meaningful idea that has ever fired across your synapses has fired across someone else’s years ago.

On a long enough timeline, your existence is rounded down to zero.

Considering the intelligent and forward-thinking audience to whom I’m bestowing this information, I’ve come to two conclusions:

1) You have come to this realization already, and have been unsuccessfully attempting to shield yourself from the truth.

2) My words have made you realize the breadth of your insignificance, answering a life-long question you weren’t quite sure how to ask.

Either way, it’s kind of a bummer, right? You may feel that you need some help to cope with this crippling understanding. Well, we here at Big Business have already thought of that, too.

Behold this recent screen capture:

It’s quite genius, actually. We have set up a system to oppress you, and when you become aware of it, you look for solace in the same system.

Sorry, readers. That’s the way it is. But look on the bright side. In 20-70 years, you’ll be dead.

Readers, I think it comes as no surprise to anyone that this is a dull period in the sporting world. Meaningful baseball hasn’t been played since last weekend, the football preseason is weeks away, and soccer remains to be really stupid. It has gotten so bad in my household, I’ve been ceaselessly checking to see if my local basketball team has signed something called a Nic Batum.

Last night I was re-watching an episode of Hillbilly Handfishin’ on Animal Planet, and wishing desperately that there were baseball games to be seen. It seemed as if I were destined to spend yet another night of despair at the bottom of an absinthe bottle, when I got an idea.

The 2012 All-Star Game was a bit of a snoozer, frankly. Though it is has been historically tough to glean enjoyment out of an All-Star Game in general, this year seemed even worse. I chose to play a reenactment of the game in my head, inserting interesting events where I deemed fit. I was not writing this down at the time, but the following is my best recollection of what transpired.

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I’ve been a married gentleman longer than I care to remember. My ankles were ensnared long ago by my metaphorical ball and chain, to whom I am destined and legally obligated to love.

But this in no way means that I do not remember the life of a gallivanting bachelor. Vivid are my recollections of “cruising for chicks,” if you will. These were, indeed, dark times. It is within our human nature to find a companion, someone with which to share our greatest accomplishments and most demoralizing defeats. We yearn for a person of substance, a person with whom we can connect on a higher plane of consciousness. This proves to be a difficult task. I speak not only of the prototypical shut-ins and nonentities. There are people out there of a presumably-normal intelligence and hygiene level that need to make this connection. Some of them are baseball fans.

I took to the Missed Connections section of Craigslist in search of stories from such people. I searched in every city that hosts a major-league stadium, and have hand-picked the most heart-wrenching  stories of love found and subsequently lost. I submit them to you, fair NotGraphs reader. I give you permission to weep.

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