Minnesota’s surprisingly competent start has been fueled in no small part by a top-shelf outfield defense keyed by Byron Buxton. Which is good, because Byron Buxton cannot fucking hit the ball. Like, at all.

The numbers are uglier than a Trump rally in a town full of ugly people:

34 ABs, 19 Ks, 3 hits, 1 walk.

If he was hitting the ball even a little bit, or just getting on base, Minnesota would be celebrating him like a celebrity who lived in Fairmont for six months as an infant.

But he’s not (see rigorous statistical analysis above). Maybe he will turn it around soon. Maybe he just has to get out of his own head. Right now, though, he just can’t hit.

Which led me to wonder what Byron Buxton, a clearly gifted baseball player with a glaring, impossible-to-ignore flaw, would be if he was other things.

If Byron Buxton was a Formula One driver, he’d have the best car and superior instincts to any other competitor, except he never learned how to use brakes and always runs over his pit crew in front of their stunned, horrified families.

If Byron Buxton was a house, he’d have 4 bathrooms, 5 bedrooms, an indoor pool, an open-concept kitchen with a butcher’s block and all the modern amenities, and be built on an active volcano that spews lava and syringes because it’s also haunted by the angry ghost of a ne’er-do-well heir to a needle factory fortune.

If Byron Buxton was a child’s birthday party, he’d be a pizza party at an arcade with all the new games and unlimited tokens and then all the toilets back up and a wave of sewage washes over you while you play Skee-Ball. You begin to cry. Where are your tickets for the gift shop? There they go, on the surging tide of human excrement that is currently pushing your best friend Adam out the door and into heavy traffic.

If Byron Buxton was a film trilogy, he’d be The Godfather movies. 1. This is great! 2. Oh my god, this is amazing, I am witnessing history! 3. What the fuck just happened.

If Byron Buxton was tater tot hotdish, he’d be fresh out of the oven, with a crispy layer of tots at the top, some perfectly seasoned ground chuck from the butcher shop and melted American cheese just below it, and then you hit a bunch of goddamn mixed vegetables out of a can because Mom just can’t leave well enough alone. Dammit, Mom. No one wants this.

If Byron Buxton was a 1988 Monsters of Rock concert, he’d be one with Metallica (YEAH!), Guns ‘n Roses (HELL YEAH!), Van Halen (IT’S THE SAMMY HAGAR VERSION BUT IT’S STILL FINE!), and...wait, is that Sting? Yep, it’s Sting. And he has a lyre. And he’s singing about the Russians loving their children, too. Everyone in the FargoDome heads for the bathroom. Dammit, Sting. No one wants this.

Anyway, I hope he starts hitting pretty soon because he’s really fun to watch otherwise.