I have long graced these pages with the undeniable truth that democracy stinks like the cheeses in Cistulli’s beloved France. When the unwashed masses are prompted to express themselves via a voting mechanism, we wind up with Taylor Hicks as our American Idol, a fourth Transformers movie, and Paul Goldschmidt beating Mike Trout in the Face of MLB contest (seriously). It is inexcusable that, despite its almost constant failure, we keep turning to this outmoded form of decision making thrust upon us by the most conquerable ancient Greeks and a bunch of Founding Fathers who were never around while we were growing up.
As ever before, would we just put ourselves into the hands of a benevolent despot, all would be incense and peppermints.
Alas, my message seems not to be penetrating your stupid eardrums. Even my colleagues, like very important Internet baseball writer and editor of The Hardball Times Paul Swydan, have turned against me. Today, Swydan advocates that you use your sausage-like fingers to caress your oily mouse (note: not a euphemism) in order to navigate your browsers away from the images of sausage-like fingers caressing an oily mouse (note: euphemism) to vote for the SABR Analytics Conference Research Awards:
— Paul Swydan (@Swydan) February 5, 2014
Not only does Swydan want you to exercise your questionable judgment to distinguish between five different articles in three distinct categories, none of the fine work you see in NotGraphs has been chosen for this year’s conference.
I am aghast, for only the finest of baseball research appears on Notgraphs. I mean, just in the last 12 months, we have plumbed the depths of terrible television by reviewing and recapping every single damn episode of Back In the Game, the sitcom that, should any alien race discover it, will be the catalyst for their decision to end us. We discovered what was written in the stars, a million miles away. We contacted the spirit of Satchel Paige. And, most importantly, we revealed the youthful indiscretions of former Internet baseball writer Bill Parker. And by “we,” I mean me. And by “the last 12 months,” I mean the last six months. And by “baseball research,” what I mean is stuff I spend about an hour on, maximum.
But dammit, I want an award. I deserve an award. You all know I deserve an award for excellence in half-assed baseball writing. Who else could bring you such excellence while using only half their ass? And I’m being denied my rightful recognition by the Interneterati who have been seduced by the large bosoms and pleasant singing voice of “Lady Liberty” instead of the politely autocratic ruler I need who would recognize the unique genius found in my lack of effort.
Once again, John Locke and Thomas Jefferson are laughing at me from the fires of Hell, where they reside and belong for supporting the slave trade, and also for dooming us all to endure the whims of people who watch Two and a Half Men.