This Week in JPEGs

Last week’s winner was Scarrieta, an illustration of Jake Arrieta’s no-hitter against your Reds. To be honest, I had already kinda forgotten it happened.

In honor of his no-hitter and his winning entry in This Week in JPEGs, a donation will be made in Jake Arrieta’s name to some charity that does something horrible like buying tuxedos for the homeless or cleaning up sharp seashells on the exotic beaches frequented by Russian billionaires so their kids don’t cut their feet when they play in the sand.

This week was about as bad as last week in Redsland. There is a bit of me that kinda hates the retrospective structure of this feature. When all you do is look back and say, "Dang, that shit was bad," it has a way of compounding the misery. But I dunno. Maybe it can be therapeutic for you. Like any other artist, I really hope my torture gives you some pleasure. Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to drink some laudanum and lie down in the yard for a while.

Big Rotten Apple

The Mets are good, you know. They went to the World Series last year. And since you also know that the Reds are bad (they didn’t go to the World Series last year), it shouldn’t surprise you that they got swept in New York this week. Even knowing all that, it’s a rotten apple to have to bite into. And it’s covered in bugs and worms and dumb Muppet-ass monsters and crap like that.

Bryan Price was handcuffed

Reds’ manager Bryan Price took some heat after Tuesday’s loss to the Mets. (You can read more about it here.) The short story is that Brandon Finnegan had pitched a gem, but was probably gassed and probably should have been pulled. So Finnegan gave up a game-tying home run to Yoenis Cespedes and the Reds went on to lose the game.

The problem is that Price’s options in the bullpen at the time were categorically buttacular. So his decision was to either keep his fatigued-but-good pitcher in or to put in a fresh-but-bad pitcher in his stead. He was handcuffed, I say.

Ol’ Hoss saddles up

Ol’ Hoss squatted by his waning campfire, absent-mindedly poking at the glowing embers with the charred end of a stick. He finished the bit of cornpone left on his plate and eyed the horizon with a determined gaze. Morning had already dawned and he knew he was making a late start of it, but no matter. He would get there in due time. He stood up slowly, deliberately, stretching to pull the last remnants of sleep from his joints. He sauntered over to the stony stream and stooped down to fill his canteen. He tongued a crumb from behind his cuspid, making an audible clucking sound. His horse, Splitter, waited patiently. "Wool git dare," Hoss said in his Texas drawl. "Wool git dare."