Philadelphia Phillies Win NLDS: Did I Hear an Innuendo in There?
I thought my kid gave me gray hair.
I think we all agree that the game that clinched the Phillies' NLDS championship was a hair-pulling, nerve-racking, nail-biting, drunk-inducing, hyphenated stress-fest.
Before the game even started, I was so nervous I had to find something to do with my hands. And since I’m married, I chose cooking.
What’d you think I was going to say?
But as my level of anxiety built with each inning, I had gone on such a cooking terror that, by the ninth inning, I had roasted a chicken, baked a pie, canned tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and had a casserole ready for the oven. The problem is, in my frenzy, I don’t recall where I got the meat. Hmmm, where’s that pesky cat?
I’m kidding, don’t tell PETA. I’d never chop up my cat for a casserole. Maybe for a stew. I hear they’re gamey.
No, really, I’m just kidding. I’d never chop up my own cat. I’d use the local stray.
Wait, isn’t there a Chinese take-out joke in there somewhere?
I’ll stop now.
But I have some disappointments to voice about the playoff roster.
First, no Tyler Walker? He finished the season with an ERA of 3.06. Only Scott Eyre, Clay Condry, and JA Happ pitched better (of those who pitched 20 or more innings). Chad Durbin had one of the worst K/BB ratios on the team.
Besides, I'm familiar with Durbin disappointment. I’m the one whose husband coined the term Disturbin’ Durbin. And I’m the one who used that term ad nauseam while blogging this season.
And granted, Eric Bruntlett was a bit more ineffective than Greg Dobbs, but Bruntlett dominated the stats in spring training. He simply didn’t get enough game time during the year to stay seasoned. Take it from a babe who’s always in season.
And what about that triple play? Bruntlett has a jersey in the Hall of Fame for that manage et twa.
Ahh, a girl can dream.
And I have some confusion over a decision made during Game Four. Who decided to pinch-hit Greg Dobbs? Ben Francisco had just used up one life to stop a flyball from blowing the game wide open, and he was replaced in the lineup by none other than Greg Dobbs?
I don’t care if it’s better to put a lefty on a lefty, or a lefty on a righty. Just so I get to be on top.
Whoops, was I thinking out loud?
I feel like Dobbs simply contributed a cropped haircut and disappointed sighs to this year’s lineup. Why not use Matt Stairs? At least when he strikes out, I feel like I got a glimpse of Santa.
But I'm sure everyone has already revisited the highlights of that exciting game so I won’t bore you more, but there’s something everyone should know. When Ryan Howard stepped to the plate in the ninth, I so hoped he wouldn’t fall for the breaking ball.
Who am I kidding—“hoping” is for wussies—I dropped to my knees and prayed. I prayed he wouldn’t whiff on a wayward slider, and I selflessly traded my wish for a cellulite cure for a base hit. (I apologize to everyone in section 145 for the unsightliness).
But it worked. That’s my confession. I’ll take credit for his hit. And it may sound futile to trade something so essential as personal beauty for a few RBI, but it’s no more pointless than stalking Shane Victorino with the hope that we’d get stuck on an elevator together.
Not that I’ve ever done that.
At least my Brad Lidge bobblehead has increased in value—and without a government bailout. Actually, it’s no longer a bobble“head”; that’s an unpleasant innuendo. Giving children an item that appears stiff but is really wobbly paints an undesirable picture. But pretending a wobbly head is stiff is second nature for me.
Whoa! Did I really say that?
I’m sorry. The moral of the story is, we shall hereforeto refer to the “bobblehead” as a “bobble figurine.” And we’ll limit our “innuendos” to the Viagra commercials that air during Major League Baseball.
Is that hypocrisy? Can I bake that in a pie?
I especially like the Viagra commercial where two tubs sit, side-by-side, housing horny old codgers...
I’m sorry, my husband tells me that’s not politically correct. Let me try again. So, these two ancient old horndogs are smelling up separate tubs…
He scoffed at me again. Okay, two deprived, shriveled-up old farts are floating their folds under a faucet…
Sorry, how ‘bout one more try? Two respected, elderly citizens are gazing out at the sunset because they hope to get it on before the sun sets on them.
No? I don’t have any idea where I was. I’m sorry, it’s been a long time since I posted and I have a lot of built-up tension.
My husband says he knows how I feel.
Okay, let me get through this Viagra story. So, these two horny, wrinkled, respected senior citizens were sitting in separate tubs gazing out over the sunset, when my son asked me, “What’s Viagra do?”
My husband said, “It heats your water.”
Be that as it may, I don’t think it makes sense for a guy to take a dose of Viagra to sit alone in a bathtub.
My husband says it makes plenty of sense. He’s married.
Ohhh! I’ll be here all week. Try the veal. Just not at the Chinese take-out.
And tune in on Thursday night. If the Monday night game was an indication of the standard level of playoff anxiety, I better go grocery shopping.
And hide my cat.
Go Phils!
I think we all agree that the game that clinched the Phillies' NLDS championship was a hair-pulling, nerve-racking, nail-biting, drunk-inducing, hyphenated stress-fest.
Before the game even started, I was so nervous I had to find something to do with my hands. And since I’m married, I chose cooking.
What’d you think I was going to say?
But as my level of anxiety built with each inning, I had gone on such a cooking terror that, by the ninth inning, I had roasted a chicken, baked a pie, canned tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and had a casserole ready for the oven. The problem is, in my frenzy, I don’t recall where I got the meat. Hmmm, where’s that pesky cat?
I’m kidding, don’t tell PETA. I’d never chop up my cat for a casserole. Maybe for a stew. I hear they’re gamey.
No, really, I’m just kidding. I’d never chop up my own cat. I’d use the local stray.
Wait, isn’t there a Chinese take-out joke in there somewhere?
I’ll stop now.
But I have some disappointments to voice about the playoff roster.
First, no Tyler Walker? He finished the season with an ERA of 3.06. Only Scott Eyre, Clay Condry, and JA Happ pitched better (of those who pitched 20 or more innings). Chad Durbin had one of the worst K/BB ratios on the team.
Besides, I'm familiar with Durbin disappointment. I’m the one whose husband coined the term Disturbin’ Durbin. And I’m the one who used that term ad nauseam while blogging this season.
And granted, Eric Bruntlett was a bit more ineffective than Greg Dobbs, but Bruntlett dominated the stats in spring training. He simply didn’t get enough game time during the year to stay seasoned. Take it from a babe who’s always in season.
And what about that triple play? Bruntlett has a jersey in the Hall of Fame for that manage et twa.
Ahh, a girl can dream.
And I have some confusion over a decision made during Game Four. Who decided to pinch-hit Greg Dobbs? Ben Francisco had just used up one life to stop a flyball from blowing the game wide open, and he was replaced in the lineup by none other than Greg Dobbs?
I don’t care if it’s better to put a lefty on a lefty, or a lefty on a righty. Just so I get to be on top.
Whoops, was I thinking out loud?
I feel like Dobbs simply contributed a cropped haircut and disappointed sighs to this year’s lineup. Why not use Matt Stairs? At least when he strikes out, I feel like I got a glimpse of Santa.
But I'm sure everyone has already revisited the highlights of that exciting game so I won’t bore you more, but there’s something everyone should know. When Ryan Howard stepped to the plate in the ninth, I so hoped he wouldn’t fall for the breaking ball.
Who am I kidding—“hoping” is for wussies—I dropped to my knees and prayed. I prayed he wouldn’t whiff on a wayward slider, and I selflessly traded my wish for a cellulite cure for a base hit. (I apologize to everyone in section 145 for the unsightliness).
But it worked. That’s my confession. I’ll take credit for his hit. And it may sound futile to trade something so essential as personal beauty for a few RBI, but it’s no more pointless than stalking Shane Victorino with the hope that we’d get stuck on an elevator together.
Not that I’ve ever done that.
At least my Brad Lidge bobblehead has increased in value—and without a government bailout. Actually, it’s no longer a bobble“head”; that’s an unpleasant innuendo. Giving children an item that appears stiff but is really wobbly paints an undesirable picture. But pretending a wobbly head is stiff is second nature for me.
Whoa! Did I really say that?
I’m sorry. The moral of the story is, we shall hereforeto refer to the “bobblehead” as a “bobble figurine.” And we’ll limit our “innuendos” to the Viagra commercials that air during Major League Baseball.
Is that hypocrisy? Can I bake that in a pie?
I especially like the Viagra commercial where two tubs sit, side-by-side, housing horny old codgers...
I’m sorry, my husband tells me that’s not politically correct. Let me try again. So, these two ancient old horndogs are smelling up separate tubs…
He scoffed at me again. Okay, two deprived, shriveled-up old farts are floating their folds under a faucet…
Sorry, how ‘bout one more try? Two respected, elderly citizens are gazing out at the sunset because they hope to get it on before the sun sets on them.
No? I don’t have any idea where I was. I’m sorry, it’s been a long time since I posted and I have a lot of built-up tension.
My husband says he knows how I feel.
Okay, let me get through this Viagra story. So, these two horny, wrinkled, respected senior citizens were sitting in separate tubs gazing out over the sunset, when my son asked me, “What’s Viagra do?”
My husband said, “It heats your water.”
Be that as it may, I don’t think it makes sense for a guy to take a dose of Viagra to sit alone in a bathtub.
My husband says it makes plenty of sense. He’s married.
Ohhh! I’ll be here all week. Try the veal. Just not at the Chinese take-out.
And tune in on Thursday night. If the Monday night game was an indication of the standard level of playoff anxiety, I better go grocery shopping.
And hide my cat.
Go Phils!
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