The noise of commenters swinging-and-missing in terms of Mr. Baseball’s columns is my favorite of all the whooshing noises around here.

Condoments? Like mustard on a Trojan? Gross, dude.

This book is trash.

Really makes you think . . .

Seconded times a million. Erin Gloria Ryan could single-handedly curb stomp these two human Kleenex boxes.

Why would you watch that?

Eat it, Dad.

You sweet, sweet child you.

Eat it, Dad.

Reveling as instructed, sir.

Birneko!

Funny, I had to pretentiously correct your spelling of “bathe,” champ. And suggest that maybe that whistling noise you’re hearing is you, missing it, by that much.

Everything. Keep up.

Mr. Baseball.

Mr. Baseball.

Eat it, Dad.

Your use of “people” reveals a profound absence of baseball dialectics comprehension.

I admit that I had begun to find the number of these celebrations a bit excessive, and the goggles and plastic sheeting a little corny and canned, but now that I know THE MAN is trying to regulate . . . break out the Krug, goddamnit!

Like Supergirl? Or Catwoman?

This is the most racist thread.