Remember Christmas? It’s a popular holiday. People give each other presents and shit, cookies and milk are consumed, it’s wonderful. Back when all of those festivities were taking place the online baseball enthusiast hotspot NotGraphs asked its readership which MLB personality might best qualify for the title of MLB Krampus. For the uninitiated, Krampus is a terrifying and mythical creature recognized in Germany and other Alpine countries. Krampus walks around with Saint Nicholas and abducts any and all bad children. They go into its sack and it takes them home to to its lair, for torturing and eating and all sorts of other unsavory practices, one would fear. Krampus is a ghastly thing to scare children with. Those Europeans are a fucked up people, let me tell you. Check out the images on the Krampus wikipedia and recoil in terror. That shit is legitimately unsettling and scary. And awesome. Obviously.
NotGraphs turdlinger Robert J. Baumann is the gentleman responsible for posing this question to the masses, and for taking nominations and later posting a poll for voting on. The winning Krampus nomination, it was said, would award its nominator “a one-of-a-kind collector’s card of said personality as Krumpus, Photoshopped and printed with great care.” It just so happens that I partook in this contest, and my appointment of Margaret Unnewehr Schott went on to victory in the poll. Why Marge Schott? You may ask. And my answer would be: Just read this article, or her Wikipedia page. Or, in brief: She chain-smoked, drank cheap vodka from a plastic container, was super mingy, was super racist, almost ran the Reds into the ground, alienated and mistreated most all of her acquaintances and employees, was a generally terrible person, once said of Adolf Hitler “He was O.K. at the beginning..,” and so on and so forth. Generally, she was extremely Krampus-like in disposition and behavior. And looks. Proving that the Internet’s absurd strangeness can be used for good instead of pure evil from time to time, my one-of-a-kind collector’s card arrived to me via United States Postal Service a few days ago. And it is glorious.
Where to even begin? I guess I could start by mocking my own photography skills. I should have used more natural light! Whatever, you get the idea. It’s probably better that the card looks a little washed out and less vibrant than in real life. A pure glimpse into its majesty would probably melt your fucking brain. I’ve come to learn that this particular card has been fashioned in the style of the 1986 Topps collection. I know this because Mr. Baumann has been exploring this set over at NotGraphs recently, and all the facial hair and spectacles and weird hats and funny faces located therein. Just like the clothing and wristwatches and alcohol I purchase on the regular, the devil (wordplay) of this creation is in the details. On the front of the card we are of course treated to the image of Krampus with the horrific visage of Marge Schott, horns and imposing stature and sickly fur and everything. Then, where we would normally find the designation of the player’s position (e.g. “P,” “2B,” “DH,” etc.), we’re instead treated to small icon of the one and only Krampus. I would venture to guess that Krampus Schott is capable of playing any and all positions if so needed, and could easily pitch and defend the entire field alone, owning to its mystical powers and whatnot. The back of the card is a veritable feast of baseball related creative whimsy (i.e. the best kind). Some highlights are Schott’s religion (Nazi Sympathizer), when and where she died (3/2/2004*, Alone), and of course, the “Talkin’ Baseball” tidbit, that I will reproduce here in full:
Margaret Unnewehr Schott once boiled and ate four children and their pet calico in the pot she kept strapped to her back. She later claimed she did it to keep them from growing up to be “Chink Jew Fags.”
Thank you Robert, and good night everyone.
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Read his NotGraphs writing if you know what’s good for you.
*Update: My brilliant and lovely wife has alerted me to the fact that today just happens to be the anniversary of Marge Schott’s death. Holy shit. I’d like to take a whole lot of credit for expertly planning and executing this post as to take full advantage of the poetry, but really, it’s just a pretty crazy coincidence, one that I didn’t even realize while writing, no less. Please pretend I was fully aware of today’s significance and made very humorous and witty note of it in the body of this post.