Show Him the Money Already

Burrow's been a good boy. Don't make him wait 'til Christmas

Joe Burrow’s oxcart is in the ditch

I’m sure there are logical reasons Joe Burrow doesn’t have a contract extension yet. Maybe the Brink’s Truck guy he hired to do the hauling — also Taylor Swift’s guy — was seriously injured when a 10-foot pile of Taylor’s Benjamins accidentally fell on his head. Burrow and the Bengals are in limbo until the man recovers. They’ve sent him flowers and a very nice card.

It could also be that Duke Tobin wanted one more look at Trevor Siemian before determining Burrow was the right man for the role of Emergency QB. “He wields a fancy clipboard,’’ the Bengals personnel guru said of Saint Joe. Then Duke sent Trevor packing. Confident that Burrow will make a fine Inactive Guy, Tobin is preparing Joe’s contract right this very moment.

Or, you know, blame the US Mail. The Bengals have come a long way in shedding their Thinwallet ways, but they draw the line at excessive postal costs. No FedEx or UPS for The Men. The contract they sent Burrow via a 1st-class stamp got lost in in a sorting machine in Dubuque. Some lucky guy in Iowa will be getting a very nice bonus in his P.O. box.

Yo, Festus. Don’t deposit that check.

Those are silly reasons. Any sillier than No Deal for the most important player in team history?

The (non) issue has reached the point where coach and QB have to answer for the lack of a deal. This is what’s known in the sports cliche business as a “distraction.’’

How come?

ESPN.com:

(Coach Zac) Taylor quickly and firmly denied that Burrow's absence is related to the inability between his side and the Bengals to reach a contract extension. Burrow has not participated in practice since he suffered a strained right calf on the second day of preseason workouts.

Welp, the market has been established. Burrow’s value is obvious, the money is there. No team would let Joe Burrow leave. What’s the problem? This is how the Old Bengals might have rolled.

It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just. . . strange. And unnecessary.

Meantime, Burrow hasn’t practiced since straining his calf July 27. On Tuesday, Taylor was noncommittal on when his QB might take the field. Burrow is a magician, but his water-to-wine skills work best when he’s actually taking snaps. Maybe the Bengals expect him to magically appear a week from Sunday (from of a phone booth, perhaps) and lead the Men to a W in Cleveland. That thinking didn’t work so well in last year’s opener.

What’s a phone booth, Doc?

And these Brownies are better than those Stillers. Stay tuned.

Now, then. . .

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ROCK, MEET BOTTOM. . . Eh, go ahead and try to sign Lucas Giolito, Reds. He didn’t make a difference in Chicago, he didn’t make a difference in Anaheim. Why should we believe he’d make a difference here?

The acquisition would be mostly cosmetic. Do it for appearances sake, Reds, if you like. I’d advocated for Giolito a month ago, when the Reds were in 1st place and everyone believed Greene and Lodolo were returning to lead a playoff surge. Things change. That moment is yesterday.

The Club could grab Giolito and keep all its blessed prospects. He’d cost them only his remaining $1.9 mil salary. The Reds made that kind of cash in one weekend series in June, hosting the Braves.

There are other guys, too, ballast from the Angels hapless attempt at contending. A couple relievers. On Friday, MLB rosters expand from 26 to 28. Those guys would fit perfectly. The Reds could use seven relievers. . . every night! They’d have so many relievers, they’d need a separate charter plane to carry them all.

Are we being cynical today, my friend?

Maybe on days Giolito starts, they’d only need six relievers. They could tell the other three or four to take the night off. Maybe go bowling.

THE REDS ARE AMONG THE LUCKIEST TEAMS in MLB. The Athletic says so. If you can navigate the exhausting supporting stats, you’ll see why.

HERE’S WHAT I KNOW. . . The older we get, the more our inanimate stuff starts moving on its own.

Take yesterday. I took my sneakers off, left them in the laundry room. Five minutes later, they weren’t there. They’d up and walked away. They must have. I mean, I didn’t move ‘em. Nobody else was around. The dog knows better.

Imagine my surprise when, after 10 minutes of looking for my sneakers, I found them in the garage.

This s—- happens all the time.

I can only conclude that the older we get, the more mobile our stuff becomes.

And furthermore. . .

The older we get, the more strange bruises we collect. Right now, I have three — count ‘em! — bruises on my shins. And I have absolutely NO IDEA where they came from. You’d think a man would know how he bruised himself.

“What happened to you?’’ Kerry asked.

What do you mean?

“Those bruises on your shins.’’

What bruises?

She points, I look. Damned if I didn’t have a rainbow of bruises coloring each shin.

“No idea,’’ I say.

I won’t even mention the recent event in which I spent five minutes frantically looking for my sunglasses. . . which were strategically hidden on top of my head. Why would I look there? Even if I did, I couldn’t see them. They were on my head.

Who can relate?

TUNE O’ THE DAY. . . It’s very rare I find new (at least to me) music that I like. It’s a function of age. It’s easier for me to locate my sunglasses. I don’t know how I found these guys. Apple Music, maybe. Anyway, they suit my tastes for anything remotely surf-y. These dudes sound like surfers doing ‘shrooms. (Not that I would know about such things.)