A WaPo commenter haughtily dismissed "the extremely dull pastime of baseball fandom," but fortunately graced us with a photo of himself. Another commenter asked how he could be as cool and hip as the first guy. No response, so I answered on his behalf. I went a tiny bit overboard drafting-wise, and since the article's a few days old, I didn't want it to go to waste.

Hopefully this is the enjoyable Yin to the somewhat depressing Yang of my post last night.

You might've read the "Giving Birth to a Nationals Fan" article on WaPo, an enjoyable little piece about the dilemma of kids rooting for different teams than their parents. Well, "That Guy," Convolutor in this case, felt the need to make the following comment:

"I had no idea that this was such an issue. And then I thanked the Flying Spaghetti Monster that I have no interest in the extremely dull pastime of baseball fandom. It's like obsessing over what kind of cheese you eat or car you drive. Trivial."

This is Convolutor's photo:

jcoop200 responded: "What do I have to do to become as cool and hip as you?"

No response from Convolutor, so I posted the following response on his behalf:

Dear jcoop,

Sir, please observe my shaggy, expertly unkempt hair. Not long enough - look again. Now, please do not believe for a second that such utter perfection is some random abnormality in the perfect-hair universe that I inhabit. This hair is indisputable evidence that your coolness and hipness will never breathe the same metaphorical air that is continually blessed to traverse the nostrils of my coolness and hipness, the two most purely innate of my many life forces. This hair is a statement, and if you can't interpret that statement, when clearly the statement is that I am so completely above making any statements, then I'm not going to explain it for you bro, because I'd just be wasting my blessed air on your tone-deaf ears.

And since you mentioned air, you must have noticed the limitless expanse of that most wondrous of gaseous substances framing my mystical mane in the shot up there. That's right, base camp mon frère! What, you thought I was wearing those croakie-secured shades for fun? Blindness, my man. Blindness. That's what I was risking at that snow-covered altitude - which, again, as you can see from my pic, is an altitude of vapid contemptuousness that you shall never know. Don't you worry about which base camp, let's just say that I was enjoying the same righteous air that my coolness and hipness have been breathing these many years.

Finally, let us not ignore the elephant in the room, and that is a deft question, but no, I'm not referring to the actual elephant that I so expertly piloted on my Thailand safari that was a celebratory ode to my domination of the bar exam on a mere second attempt. I'm referring of course to the keystone of my photo, that virile visage that you see above. That smirk, steadfastly refusing to become a smile, no never a smile. The angle so perfectly askew, like the uneven line of a woman's skirt as it falls to the floor of my bedroom whenever that just-so grin is unleashed.

When it's done launching a thousand skirts, that grin speaks a thousand words with every breath of blessed air. And those words all say the same thing. That's right, it's good-sized. At least average to above-average. And that's what it is. Sorry to disappoint brah, but without all of those things you will never convey such specious superciliousness as I do. That is what my picture says, and that is why I can so dismissively convey my non-interest in baseball. Baseball and those other sports that tried to force me to somehow conjure athleticism, character and coordination, traits that I do not have because I do not need. At least not to smirk like an a**hole.