Phrenology

Did you ever notice that when the Nats make any kind of splash among the general baseball fan population, it's for something bad? Of course you have. Well it happened again recently, when Sports Illustrated's Tim Marchman put up something that's practically indistinguishable from my last ten or so posts, except for the lack of swears and kitten pictures.

Here's the difference, though: look at Tim Marchman.

That's a face bent on finding censure. Stern, unforgiving. Now look at me (I'm below the poop arm).

Note the pronounced joviality, the willingness to assume the very best, the comforting beigeness of the hair.

What this means is that when Marchman finds something to complain about, you can more or less dismiss it. It's like a positive review of Thunderbird from a wino. When I, on the other hand, find fault, it's an occasion to sit up and take notice. I'm not going to complain about just anything, as it obviously goes against my cheerful manner.

Therefore, you should all go check out my extended critique of the statues of the Elder Gods they plopped down in front of the ballpark. It features my own exclusive photography, endless use of the inherently amusing word "poop," and a full, uncensored look at that cheery face of mine.

Even better, go here, where all instances of my joy-bringing grin have been collected, and take your pick. You'll be amazed at how much better you feel about everything. Well, until someone hits a fly ball to a National. My mug isn't that powerful a painkiller.