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As we reported on Friday, the Braves traded an under-performing outfielder, Jeff Francoeur, to the Mets for an under-performing outfielder, Ryan Church. My theory? The general managers were just bored. Saturday's Dugout is after the jump.

As I'm sure you already know, Javier Vazquez recently moved from the Chicago White Sox to the Atlanta Braves.

The White Sox have been around for a long, long time, but these days they're often described as a "dying medium." The Braves, meanwhile, have emerged as a free, open, readily accessible source of baseball.

Can we really blame Vazquez for leaving behind the Chicago market and the ubiquitous feuding with Ozzie Guillen? I don't think we can. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt, wish him the best, and enjoy the ride. Today's Dugout is after the jump.

The "Bobby Cox smacks his forehead like he's Bull from Night Court" picture is the only image of Getty I like as much as Roger Clemens in the Mitchell Report. It's totally out of context and he's just wiping his face, but it's a great tool to illustrate the frustration and utter futility that comes from being the best team in the league for a decade and a half and then immediately becoming, well, what the Braves are right now.

It's not like they're hopeless. There's still a chance they could win the division and then win it 34 more years in a row. There's also a chance that Mike Hampton is going to show up on opening day and tell us he's fine and was just kidding. There's a better chance of Mike Hampton being crapped on by a bird and having that crap infect him with Super SARS and make his head fall off.

Insert 25 cents to read more after the jump.

Sometimes it feels worse to see a horrible thing happen to your friend's team than it does to see something horrible happen to your own. What's worse than that is seeing the very same horrible thing that happened to your team happening to your friend's team. That's what happened today. Jon Bois, one of the guys who does The Dugout with me, is a Braves fan. I'm an Orioles fan.

A few years ago we got General Manager Frank Wren. We'll refer to him as "a rhino that got loose in my house." When he was smashing up my house I could just go, "oh, my house!" Now the rhino has burst through my living room door and trampled everything he could trample on the way to my friend's house down the street. I can go "DUDE LOOK OUT, RHINO" as much as I want, but apparently everyone else on the street (Major League Baseball and those that comprise it) chuckles to themselves and asks, "what rhino?" THE RHINO, YOU GOONS, THAT ONE, RIGHT THERE