Oakland fans have plenty of experience with being ignored by the Mainstream Sports Media.  We’re used to it.  It’s kind of our thing.

(SPORTSCENTER INTERN: Bad news, sir.  The show is running about two minutes short.

SPORTSCENTER PRODUCER: Well, what can we use to fill time?

SPORTSCENTER INTERN: Film of fat people stomping on kittens, terrorist recruiting tapes, and highlights from tonight’s Oakland game.

SPORTSCENTER PRODUCER: Hmmmm . . . Tell you what - just run that Red Sox feature again.  You know, the one about  how they’re scrappy underdogs who succeed in the face of adversity.

SPORTSCENTER INTERN: The one we’ve already run twice in the last hour?

SPORTSCENTER PRODUCER: That’s the one.)

But the last few days have shown us something worse: attention.  Good attention.  And that’s “good” attention in the sense of “positive, complimentary” attention, not ”good” attention in the sense of “NOT likely to karmically curse your team by introducing lofty expectations that the Universe cannot help but strike down in its fury” attention.

(ARIEL PRIETO: Man, I know what that’s all about.

THE UNIVERSE: Shut up, Ariel.

ARIEL PRIETO: Yes, sir.)

In last few days, we’ve seen Buster Olney, Keith Law, Jerry Crasnick, Jon Heyman and Lee Jenkins fawn over our young pitchers like new parents over their baby clutching a puppy sliding down a rainbow.   Susan Slusser goes so far as to spend a paragraph telling us how beautiful Michael Ynoa’s eyes are. 

And that’s bad.  It’s very bad.  Bad to the point of “Me Selling My Pre-Bought 2011 World Series Tickets” bad.  Bad to the point of “Let’s Sacrifice a Live Chicken in Trevor Cahill’s Locker to Undo the Curse” bad.

So in an effort to avoid the messy alternative, I’m going to unleash my own brand of karmic invalidation.  Right here, right now,  you are going to hear the only unabashedly true scouting reports on the hotshot young pitchers rising up the ranks of the Oakland farm system. Beginning with . . .

Brett Anderson: Very early in life, Anderson was ordained to a life of stardom.  This early adulation created a sense of entitlement, which led to arrogance, which led to a healthy disrespect for all forms of authority, coupled with a thirst for power.  Currently, Anderson spends his nights leaping from rooftop to rooftop garishly dressed as a costumed supervillain named “The Speckled Mangler,” continually going to greater and greater lengths to seize wealth and power in a cruel bid for world domination, all while thwarting the efforts of The City’s many costumed crimefighters.  His fastball lacks velocity.

Trevor Cahill: The first pitch he threw as a professional shattered his elbow.  The second pitch (thrown two years later due to a longer-than-normal rehabilitation time) landed soundly in the groin of his own first baseman.  He’s been known to cockily tell batters the type and location of the pitch he’s about to throw and dare them to hit it, only to break down in tears as he watches that pitch soar over the center field wall.  He hates freedom.       

Vincent Mazzaro: Is in actuality only three and a half inches tall.

James Simmons: I don’t know who this is.

Gio Gonzalez: Is Ariel Prieto is disguise.

Sean Gallagher: Is Marco Scutaro in disguise.

Matt Holliday: Is Ben Grieve in disguise. 

Henry Rodriguez: Though once heralded as a leader of the American Revolution, became disillusioned with his compatriots’ cause and conspired with the British to surrender the base at West Point, a defeat which would almost certainly spell doom for the colonies and which he misguidedly felt would make him a hero in the eyes of history.  His plot was exposed, and he died an ignominious death in disgrace.  Excellent velocity, but lacks control. 

Michael Ynoa: May be a girl.

Your move, Universe.