Scott Baker, Antichrist

 Scott Baker's pitching is like biting into a ballpark hotdog and come away with a short n curly, forgetting to wipe down the seat in a public restroom and sitting on something wet, or rounding the corner in the men's locker room and coming face to face with an obese man bending over.  In a word, disgusting.

Scott Baker's outings are more poorly planned than FEMA relief efforts, and leave a bigger mess that BPs Deepwater Horizon.

The other day a play-by-play guy mentioned Scott Baker "executing his pitches", I got excited for a moment, thinking he had said "executing this pitcher". Sadly, that was not the case.

Seeing Scott Baker's name on the schedule induces the same feeling of horror as watching the water rise in a newly backed-up toilet.  Appropriate, give the figurative deuces he's been dropping all season, not talking about curveballs either.

If white is the lack of color, then Scott Baker is the lack of talent and winning is the lack of Scott Baker.

Scott Baker could not hit water if he fell out of a ****ing boat.

It's quite possible the Oklahoma Dust Bowl of the 1930s was God's attempt to prevent the existence of Scott Baker.

Scott Baker invented the vuvuzela, turkey bacon and the interminable commercial-kickoff-commercial stretch in NFL games.

The next time you're stuck in traffic, blame Scott Baker; he's also responsible for the subprime mortgage crisis and the fact that Saturday Night Live is no longer funny.

Scott Baker doesn't seem to care that he sucks, or maybe he's just afraid to throw his glove in the dugout for fear of it flying 400 feet in the opposite direction.

Palestinians and Israelis would've put their differences aside years ago, had it not been for Scott Baker.

If a train leaves Chicago headed east at 70 MPH, and another leaves Cleveland traveling at 50 MPH, Scott Baker has most likely surrendered home runs to more than half the passengers.

The shortest distance between two points is the seats and a Scott Baker fastball.  The greatest distance is between competence and Scott Baker.

Scott Baker's WHIP could be confused with a 40-yard dash time.

I'm pretty sure Scott Baker is the devil incarnate, because it's a trip through hell every time he takes the mound.

(Base)ball-gagged/Meltdown in Motown

Remember that extremely unplesant scene in Pulp Fiction when the two rednecks take certain, ahem, "liberties" with Ving Rhames character? Well the Minnesota Twins re-enacted it on a baseball diamond in Detroit last night, and the sequel was even more horrible to watch than the first time around. Scott Baker played the role of Maynard in this analogy, creating the situation that allowed it to happen, the umpires were Zed, actually doing the ****ing, and Marcellus Wallace? Alas, fellow Twins fans, that was you and I; hopefully you're not having trouble sitting down this morning.

Now I know I need to throw out the caveats of "long season", "can't win them all", "can still win the series", etc, but I'm not wired that way. Keeping an even keel through the storms of a baseball season is what's required to stay focused and win a title, even the best teams lose 60-70 games, so if you're going to lose your mind every time it doesn't go your way, you'll never make it through. But I'm not on a ship, I'm on a roller coaster, and fortunately, success or failure doesn't hinge on my personal conduct, so let the meltdown begin!

Game 21 of 162 was only one loss in the L column, but will be one that is remembered all season. The last two years have taught us every game counts, and when we're sitting one game up with one to play in September, April 28th will be a date that lives in infamy. Losing, although unpleasant, is acceptable; it can (and has repeatedly) happened. But losing by 5 after leading by 5, with your starting pitcher becoming so abjectly horrible you begin to wonder if he's wagering against the team, is not an option. Sure they were jobbed by the umps, but the game should've never reached a point where the umps were allowed to impact the outcome.

I'm talking to you Scott Baker, at this point I would have no problem letting you chuck a baseball at my chest from 20 feet, ala Bull Durham, cause there ain't no way I'm getting hit. One more outing like that and I start petitioning for Scott Baker D-Cell Battery Night, where you stand on the mound solo and each fan gets one chance to loosen a couple of your fillings with a well-placed Duracell. Better hope the big kid in row 3 above the dugout isn't better at hitting his spots than you are.