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A Rays Fan and a Royals Fan debate.

RAYS FAN: Myers is totally ready. It’s a travesty he’s been in the minors for this long. He’s going to get a hit every time up and help the Rays win the World Series.

ROYALS FAN: Whatever, I’m sure he sucks, because everyone the Royals touch ends up sucking.

RAYS FAN: Wait, I thought you were a Royals fan.

ROYALS FAN: I am, but what that means in the 21st century is simply embracing the reality that nothing good will ever happen for us ever again.

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He's arrived. Wil Myers called up to the #Rays. #WelcomeHome

— Tampa Bay Rays (@RaysBaseball) June 16, 2013

Hey. He lost his big feather.
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Some people around here consider themselves to be poets of some kind or another, or at least that’s what they tell their family as “professional medical test subject” is considered less of a noble calling in this day and age. Really, the last non-Maya Angelou to really make it as a poet was one Theodore Geisel, who turned his verse into children’s books that are belovéd and turned into shitty movies, as a way to support his filthy rhyming habit. His was an exhausting writing process where he went through several drafts of his work before finally settling on the right combination of whimsy, life lessoning, and made up words that are probably actually anagrams for swears. Here is one such draft, originally titled Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are You’re Not Butts Wagner? that was rejected for being too damn depressing:

“When you think things are bad,
when you feel sour and blue,
when you start to get mad…
you should do what I do!
Just tell yourself, Duckie [Medwick],
you’re really quite lucky!
Some people are much more…
oh, ever so much more…
oh, muchly much-much more
unlucky than you!”

You’re your parents’ sole baby; you had their attention.
So whenever they’d meet someone new they would mention
All the things you were up to, and what you had done.
It would take them two hours, they’d talk a whole ton.

Every small thing you did filled them with pride,
and you felt their love with every fiber inside.

But you could have been poor, poor, poor, poor Albert Wagner,
whose parents made him sleep every night in a bagner.
A bagner is far less warm than sleeping bags,
on account of it’s made out of old moldy rags.
But his folks saved the space on the big double bed,
for his younger brother, who got it instead.
“Trust us,” they said. “Your brother Honus
Will some day be rich enough that he could own us.
You don’t have his potential.
You’re just not that good.
We’ll feed you and clothe you
like society demands legally we should.
But that’s all you’ll get, Al,” they said with two shrugs,
“now get in your bagner and what watch out for bugs.”

Worse, while desperately trying to fight his removal
from the bed and their hearts, desp’rate for their approval,
Albert barely noticed when some dumb old klutz,
decided to nickname the sad young man Butts.
And despite his misgivings, he never said boo,
like you might have done if in his place were you.

You might have screamed and you might have yelled
Albert poured himself into a game at which he excelled
“Baseball!” he cried, “now that’s the ticket!”
“I’m quite good at this bastardized version of cricket.”
But so too was Honus and before too much time,
His brother surpassed him and left him behind.

Honus became one of baseball’s bright shining stars,
bought houses, woo-bangles, snazzers, and cars.
He moved his parents to a brand new palatial estate,
with a long winding driveway and impassable gate,
while poor old Butts Wagner, died sad and alone.
in the only home that he had ever known.

So when you feel yourself getting down, and feeling sad,
remember some lives are less easily had.
At least people love you and you’re not a putz,
with a brother like Honus and a nickname like Butts.

As some of you may have noted, the above is clearly a Graph, and therefore an express violation of this weblog’s mission statement. I humbly entreat all parties for forgiveness, and pledge to rededicate myself to the sharing of useless and inappropriate frivolities, starting next week.

But meanwhile, click to embiggen.

Ian Stewart got in some trouble Monday night when he complained on Twitter about how the Cubs didn’t want to call him back up to the majors. He has since apologized, and been suspended without pay.

Here at NotGraphs, we have jumped into our time machine and are proud to present some Future Ian Stewart Tweets. Be aware that our time machine is only intended for discovering future tweets, and not to be used for sports betting or other wagering purposes. Thank you for understanding.

Yeah, I don’t know what that last one means either.

Editor’s Note: the author of this post originally misspelled Puig’s first name as Yasail as part of his unceasing campaign against his own and also the site’s credibility.

I can’t believe you keep spelling my name wrong, man.

It’s true, Yasiel Puig is nowhere to be found on my All Star ballot. I’m trying as much not to be miffed about that as I am trying to follow Internet Superstar and world champion non-blinker Dave Cameron’s advice to include Yasiel Puig’s name in the title, and preferably the body of any post on the ___Graphs family of premium websites, even though the article in question may (and in this case does, in fact) have nothing to do with Yasiel Puig. Integrity be damned. I’ll play it the company way. Wherever the company puts me, there I’ll stay.

Anyway, I went to the Phillies-Brewers tilt last Saturday with three Phillies phans, because I apparently have a death wish of some sort. I met them before the game at a bar in Milwaukee at 3:00 in the afternoon. They had been there since 11:00. Two of the Phillies phaithful in question were greatly enjoying their brews, but in a greatly responsible manner. The third was already the kind of drunk that confuses “loud” with “charming.” The omens were good for the evening’s merriment.

Later, at the game itself, he proceeded to make a harmless nuisance of himself to the various Brewers fans in attendance in a way that was simultaneously hilarious to me and deeply embarrassing. I can’t say I didn’t encourage him once or twice. I can’t say I didn’t howl with laughter at others. And I can’t say that I didn’t take extra trips to the men’s room and concession stands to escape him on occasion.

When they passed out the All Star ballots, I took the opportunity to distract him, handing him mine and a pencil and encouraging him to phill out the ballot in my name. This, friends, is that ballot, filled out by one of the more harmlessly intoxicated fans I have ever come across. The only ballot I will be submitting for the 2013 All Stars, because democracy is often dumb and I won’t participate in this pharce: Read the rest of this entry »

Here is a thing that I made. I picked the Red Sox at random. I thought some of you might enjoy it, and maybe I will do it for other teams too.

It’s possible that the screwball Hector Santiago throws is actually not that great of a pitch. It doesn’t get a ton of whiffs or grounders, he seems to have lost control of it a bit, there’s a chance that using it less this year has led to more success, and mostly batters just don’t swing at it.

And yet, with famous screwgie throwers like Tug McGraw and Fernando Valenzuela backing him up, it’s worth trying to perfect.

Here’s a decent one, from his start against the Mets on May 22nd:

I think Luke Scott’s razor broke.

Please alert us to any future contenders for “Current Mistakes in Facial Hair.” Thank you.