I did not knowingly hit the snooze button this morning.
I did not knowingly stay up too late watching a movie last night.
I will not knowingly eat tamales for lunch when I should knowingly eat a salad.
I am not knowingly brusque with strangers sometimes.
Once, when I was in high school, I did not knowingly copy the answers.
Watched some postgame interviews last night. Decided to take their advice.
Today I’m going to stay within myself … not do too much.
“I have to apologize.”
Crowd noise. Uncertainty.
“The first runner-up…”
“Mr. Name Game Two-Thousand Sixteen…”
“… is Parker!”
On Friday, loyal reader and super-utilityman Parker (no last name given) used the space provided by Banknotes Industries to point out that I, a.k.a. yours truly, had defaulted on a promise to reveal the answers to The Name Game on Thursday, Sept. 21, 2016 A.D.
Indeed. But what Parker (no first name given) and the rest of you might not realize is that yours truly, a.k.a. The Crown Prince of Most Media, just happens to use a different and far more helpful calendar than the boring old Gregorian calendar that you chumps use.
Yep, I use the the Mañana Calendar.
Granted, it’s not very popular in places like hospitals and NASA launch pads, but I like it.
As if a desperate contestant on a ridiculous reality show whose grand prize is fame so fleet that it renders the Warholian allotment an overreach, you have arrived at last at the final leg of your challenge. Still, you have done so without consuming a blender full of earthworms, engaging in a catfight with your housemate or, presumably, sneaking just off-camera to eat a tasty three-bean salad from the craft-services table.
So, whoever you are and whatever your name might be, congratulations for that.
Now, as the dawn of your dusk sets upon you and casts your face in the bittersweet glow of that which comes and that which goes, you pause for a moment of reflection, gazing upon your time here with a heady blend of nostalgia for names past — Aldrem Hallwey, anyone? — and an anxious expectation for names future — Hamlet Marte, for real? And you may wonder, in your fervent wish that no name is fake and that all appear on birth certificates, if it is possible, in any case or every instance, that both names are correct.
That is to say, might one man go by Taylor Emu and Taylor Ostrich?
Might another answer to both Skye Bolt and Earthe Quake?
Did you know that a Pete Rose by any other name would still have a bad haircut?
It’s true. After all, the dude is also known as Charlie Hustle, right? — and just look at the tonsorial catastrophe atop his head! Pete Rose/Charlie Hustle … Charlie Hustle/Pete Rose … whatever the name underneath, it’s the same bad cabbage up top. Four out of five dentists surveyed said it looks as if a weedeater demonstration went “horribly wrong.”
The other dentist said, “Why are you asking dentists?”
Yesterday, with you, specifically, in mind, yours truly published the first in an ordinal series of very important posts, each sharing the name “The Name Game: Namely, Name those Names!” (The peer-reviewed journal Naming Names Nametastically, published by a man named Joe Namath, named it “The Year’s Namiest Thing, Name-Wise,” while Name-Droppers Monthly, published by my good friend Kanye West, named it “The Year’s Most Disappointing Example of Name-Droppery, As It Failed To Mention Me, Mr. Kanye West.”)
In any event, yesterday’s post — i.e., Part 1 — explained with quite some clarity not the least measure of brilliance that yours truly — a.k.a., Count Doobie Von Doobenstein — took time from his (i.e., my) busy schedule to concoct a list of fake names to correspond with the actual names of minor league baseball players whose names are neither Rougned Odor the minor leaguer nor Rougned Odor the major leaguer. Your mission, across the quartet of installments, is to figure out which names I totes made up.
Example: 1) B 2) A 3) B 4) A
(Note: not the actual answers, you ninny)
Names are important. If we didn’t have names, people would call you “you” and me “O Exceptional One, Upon Whose Head The Almighty Has Bestowed The Most Gracious Blessings And Upon Whose Loins The Same Almighty Has Issued Eye-Popping Girth And Length At The Expense Of All Other Loins, For Verily, There Is Only So Much Loinage To Go Around.”
Of course, for the sake of expediency, I would probably go by “Gus.”
In baseball, as in society at large, names help us distinguish one person from another. For example, can you imagine if baseball had more than one Matt Duffy? Chaos, mayhem, anarchy! Can you fathom the confusion if two players surnamed Soto were to share the given name Geovany, regardless of the potential variations of its spelling? Panic, riots, long lines at Costco! Indeed, there is but one Giancarlo Stanton in the baseball world, and but one name to call him by, even if — or even because — there were two Mike Stantons.
Well, actually … three.
Typical reasons for bunting:
1) to move a baserunner to the next base
2) to score a baserunner from third base
3) to reach first base safely and thereby become a baserunner, you silly goose
Atypical reasons for bunting:
1) to overthrow the dictator of a neighboring country in a coup so utterly bloodless that some will question the nonaggressive strategy, especially if it fails in its intended objective of creating a sovereign nation in which the workers wield political authority in an anarcho-syndicalist system
2) to apply paint to a large-scale canvas in a manner less violent than that of Jackson Pollock, thereby de-emphasizing the hypermasculine recklessness of traditional action painting while fortifying the implicit relationship between the artist and the magnetic fields of a maternal Gaia
3) to whisk eggs into a froth suitable for French toast
This has been a Banknotes Industries Baseball Primer, and these have been typical and atypical reasons for bunting.
Mambo dogface to the banana patch? Oogly-boogly. Quinoa nachos. Hnnnng.
Yada! And also yada! And blah. And blah. And blah. And blah and blah and blah!
And also blah.