Welcome to the MLB Star Power Index -- a weekly undertaking that determines with awful authority which players are dominating the current zeitgeist of the sport, at least according to the narrow perceptions of this miserable scribe. While one's presence on this list is often celebratory in nature, it can also be for purposes of lamentation or ridicule. The players listed are in no particular order, just like the phone book.
The loudest of siren calls known to humankind? 'Tis the siren call of the replenishing burger, and we have scant control over when it meets our ears. At a funeral? Might soon be burger time. Passing traffic on the shoulder of the road while steering with your knees so as to be able to light a Winston at the same time? A delicious burger may beckon. Listening to your non-betrothed's explanation as to why your jumbotron marriage proposal will not be accepted, now or ever? Burgus interruptus.
This brings us to the recent workplace improvisations of Mississippi State fly-catcher Tanner Allen. It is not custom in this space to honor collegians and the 8:00 a.m. M-W-F classes that afflict their senses of leisure and complicate their Thursday night decision-making matrices. As you'll soon see, however, this departure from established norms is both justified and necessary. Please witness the following mouthwatering color-television footage:
Visual confirmation that it is indeed an enlivening burger eludes us, but, as ancient sacred texts have long told us, Instagram captions are to be trusted without ceasing. So a flavorsome burger it is and a master practitioner of Burger Living is he -- i.e., Mississippi State fly-catcher Tanner Allen.
So if in your daily peregrinations you hear the cry of the call-and-response hype man, you'll know what to say.
Call-and-response hype man: "What is it?"
The people: "A burger."
Call-and-response hype man: "I said, what is it?"
The people: "A burger."
Call-and-response hype man: "Whose is it?"
The people: "It is Mississippi State outfielder Tanner Allen's."
Call-and-response hype man: "For what purpose is it?"
The people: "Provisioning specifically and Good Living generally."
Call-and-response hype man: "Thank you."
The people: "A burger."
Call-and-response hype man: "What?"
The people: "We would each like a nourishing burger."
Call-and-response hype man: "Gimme a hell yeah!"
The people: "We shall give you a hell yeah in exchange for a plenitude of fat burgers."
Call-and-response hype man: "Yup, yup!"
The people: "Hell yeah."
On this day, the people -- of whom Tanner Allen is one -- shall have their meaty, plump burgers.
There is no fouler emotional criminal than the person who exerts too much effort. All available gods and the middle managers who serve them expect you to look busy, yes. This is why we set up a spreadsheet as our screensaver, so that we can appear to be plotting how to hit our numbers while we nap at our desks dreaming only of our next nap. Those who, in violation of established social mores, do more than is necessary -- and what is necessary is a little less than what it takes to get by -- are to be entombed in fast-setting Quikrete.
Worse still are those who are conspicuous in their sweating and grunting, thus raising the bar for what passes for effort, while failing to satisfy even the most basic objectives. One example of such a human monster is Cubs cold-fusion infielder Eric Sogard. Watch on in mute resignation as he ruins all that he surveys:
It's one thing to indulge in an eyewash spa day to such an extent, but it's something else to do so in the service of nothing in particular. Not only did the sniveling mountebank Sogard bring false hustle onto the factory floor, but he also went through all those theatrics while somehow bypassing the target like a blundering sapsucker.
Black-hearted Eric Sogard, the next time you undertake such too-obvious striving let it be to the end of bloodiest self-flagellation.
Clothing is not meant to conceal in obeisance to the over-churched; rather, high-fashion acrylics are designed to caress and nuzzle the unmentionables that pulse beneath. Since the invention of Good Living in the mid-1970s, we demand nothing less of our fabrics. This lesson was recently and gloriously reinforced by Blue Jays moundsman Robbie Ray, whose breeches cling to him like morning glories ascending a trellis:
Long ago in another digital space, the buffoon who types these words asked the readership collective which MLB player should be nicknamed Señor Buttcheeks. The answer at the time was Nick Swisher. Now, those comfortable assumptions have been called into form-fitting doubt. That's thanks to Robbie ... Rayon, who is quite possibly the One True Señor Buttcheeks.