Somehow this one slipped between the cracks — C.J. Wilson pranked Mike Napoli… by putting the catcher’s phone number on twitter. He wasn’t particularly contrite about it afterwards either:

Perhaps “Nap Nap Weiner” will take an item off of this list of suggested revenge pranks?

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Dear Buddy,

Winter’s end is closer. Bills pile but, oh, done with ‘em. Bored? Spring! Birds all over! Got a glover, lover? A lent one. Jersey? Ball? Bats? Field? Games please. Eat on your, a, pork chop, Buddy. Not hard, fatty. Bad news? Dang. Snow’s fine. We’re ready.

Done. Goodnight.

A Boomer Whipple to Jeff Sullivan & Jon Bois, whose twitter game inspired this post.

Hi Bud! It’s me, Eric.

I know we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye on things. That’s okay. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones if you are.

The reason I’m writing today is because I have some ideas which I believe represent improvements on your own ideas. This is not to say that I think your ideas aren’t already good. Rather, I think I can make them even better.

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Greetings from the afterlife!

It’s me, Alexander Cartwright. Today marks the 119th year since I passed on from the physical realm into Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez’s closet (no, it wasn’t a dream, Benny). Every once in a while when I am called upon or when I feel there is a pressing need, I’ll make a return on the anniversary of my death. So as my mere presence today indicates, there are some scores that need asettlin’. To hell with Ouija boards, we’ve finally moved into the 21st century, which is more than we can say for Mr. Selig.

Back in October it was brought to my attention by Bart (Giamatti) that that nitwit snake oil used car salesman was once again promulgating lies about the origins of the game for which he serves as steward. This time, when prompted by an autograph expert about his stance on that roaming band of drunken hacks, The Mills Commission, he gave this response:

As a student of history, I know there is a great debate whether Abner Doubleday or Alexander Cartwright really founded the game of baseball. From all of the historians which I have spoken with, I really believe that Abner Doubleday is the “father of baseball.” I know there are some historians who would dispute this though.

Thank you for taking the time to write to me. I hope that this has been helpful. I appreciate your interest in this most interesting historical subject.

Sincerely
Allan H. Selig

Do you hear that? That’s the sound of me dying of laughter.

What tommyrot! What bunkum! What flapdoodle! What codswallop!

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Congratulations Mr. Bryce Harper!

You have just been fast-tracked to Double-A and now only one step separates you from Major League glory. I know you have plans to rule MLB with a ruthlessness unseen since the days of Genghis Khan, but before you can do that, you must first conquer Harrisburg.

Yes, Harrisburg. Over the years, this deceptively small Gomorrah that lies between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia has claimed many a promising young soul. You must resist the pull of the Harrisburg fast life. The nightclubs. The beautiful women. The drugs. The celebrity culture.

Avoid it all, lest you end up like Jacobo Sequea. Remember Jacobo Sequea? Of course you don’t. The Harrisburg spotlight proved too much for him. As the story goes: after being thrown out of Harrisburg’s last bar when it closed at 9 pm, the depressed Jacobo made the 20 minute drive on 322 to nearby Hershey, PA where he embarked on a “Leaving Las Vegas” style chocolate binge that saw him consume a commercial shipment of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. He was declared missing by his teammates after failing to report for two games in a row and was found in a roadside Econolodge face-down in a pool of melted Kisses. Luckily, paramedics arrived just in time to revive Sequea, but he entered rehab for chocolate addiction shortly afterward and has not pitched since.

Don’t be like Jacobo Sequea, Mr. Bryce Harper.

Always keep in mind that on a media stage as big as Harrisburg, your every move will be carefully scrutinized. The best advice I can give you is to never go outside unless you absolutely have to. The notorious Harrisburg paparazzi are just waiting for you to slip up. And in a city with as much temptation as Harrisburg, you are bound to slip up if you go outside. Learning to live as a recluse is a valuable skill that will pay dividends when every baseball writer in America hates you for failing to feed their egos by giving them the quotes they want.

Finally, stay focused on the future. Realizing your potential as the biggest douche in the Major Leagues in two years is far more important (and lucrative, of course) than becoming the biggest douche in Harrisburg tomorrow.

The good news is that after Harrisburg, it will only get easier.

I wish you the best of luck and will continue to follow your career closely.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Pennsylvanian

Mr. John Hodgman,

I hope this letter finds you enjoying life, preferably in some manner of overstuffed chair, drinking one of the more expensive fermented beverages available legally (or not so much) in this country.

Even if this is not the case, it’s how I plan on imagining you for the duration of this electronic message.

You don’t know me, sir, but — with the exception of some enormous differences in fame and riches and access to world leaders — we have a great deal in common. For one, we’re both native sons of New England. While I, for my part, am from the mostly unkempt part known as New Hampshire, I at least had the decency to attend boarding school as soon as I’d realized the setbacks my youth had leveled against me.

Additionally, we both have a strong affinity for Western Massachusetts, where I pursued my graduate studies and where you, the internet tells me, currently reside.

Finally — and most relevant to this dispatch, sir — we are both nerds.

It’s this last point that I’ll care to address here.

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