“I’ve a drowning grip on your adoring face”
From my private stash of baseball cards: Topps, Donruss, Fleer, Bowman ’85 – ’93, mostly.
Dedicated to the institution of uncledom, wherever it may dwell.
“Brady, you hit one pop fly with all those bats, your batting average will be scarred with a permanent negative superscript for the remainder of your career, never you mind having your name attached to the sabermetrics formula for Bat-outs per Revolution And Discrete Y-axis movements.”
“Welp! You got me again, guys. Hope yer happy!”
Uncle Neck the Third: is that a grounder or a goiter?
It would upset me to no end if I were this uncle and I had my image immortalized with such an uneven trim job on the swashbuckler mustache.
Disappointment and Egon Schiele‘s “Self Portrait” are cuts from the same sleeveless shirt.
Uncle Bullchild Nosebreather.
Nevermind the face on this Uncle – priceless though it may be, the mullet in mid-pitch is a declarative statement of action – watch it swing about with verve akin to the great work of Italian Futurist painter Giacomo Balla‘s “Dynamism of a Dog on a Leash.”
“The Face that Launched a Thousand Sliders.”
This Uncle unwittingly receives The Joke That Keeps On Telling while his teammates endure a 16-2 rout at the hands of Sam Horn’s Baltimore Orioles.
(Featured image courtesy of gamefaqs.net)