Philitically Incorrect

Yesterday, my son wanted to go to the Dairy Queen. Since I’m trying to eat healthy, I inquired about the selections they had that didn’t resemble candy. The girl offered me a chocolate covered banana. I said, “That’s it? Don't you have a more phallic desert?” Obviously not. So when she handed the treat my way, one thing crossed my mind: I’ll have to hold this in a way that makes me look like I’m not enjoying it. But there’s no way I can hide my pleasure about the series win in the Bronx. Everyone’s thinking the bat formation in front of Chase Utley’s locker before the Thursday whooping was the series clincher, but I believe there’s only one thing that can cause a change this profound: Charlie Manuel is on performance-enhancing drugs. Of course I’ve alleged that before. But how else do you explain Greg Dobbs getting a hit, Raul Ibanez stealing a base, or the Phils finding a rally without Jimmy Rollins? When’s the last time the team hit back-to-back homers? When’s t

Charlie Manuel shuffled the lineup again. That’s good, I like adding something new to the same old routine. Just like me, Charlie must have a drawer he goes to when things go stale. Hypothetically speaking. I imagine the Phils are scraping the barrel on superstitions by now. At this point they’re probably wearing children’s panties, playing hopscotch on the way through the clubhouse, and buttering their Pop-Tarts from right to left. You heard me. Butter on Pop-Tarts. It covers all four food groups: butter, sugar, flavor, and crust. But honestly, it’s time to really shake things up. I’ll start. This babe’s opinion of what the Phillies are missing is heart. The team has as many errors in about 60 games as they did all last season, and figures suggest that aliens abducted the real Phils in mid-May. But most importantly, I’m beginning to think the only reason they looked so good was because the competition was so bad. It’s the same concept behind Lady Gaga selling records.

Some people like dogs. Some people only like big dogs. I don’t blame them. Big dogs are real dogs—a man’s dog. They eat a man-sized meal and take a man-sized crap. They can down a steak in one gulp and leave you a gift the size of a baseball glove when you screw up. Boston took one hell of a dookie on the Philadelphia Phillies. The pinstriped NL Pennant champs returned to the scene of their May skid hoping for a Groundhog Day, but got their bats handed to them on a Fenway platter. The trouble didn’t start with a Boston teammate with a catchy nickname like "Dice-K" or by letting a baseball villain called "The Knuckleballer" have his way with you. Not that letting a knuckleballer have their way with you is such a bad thing. You don’t ever know where it’s gonna go. In the dark, that could be quite an adventure. But an adventure is not what the Phillies were hoping for. Baseball isn’t like combing your room for a missing sock or discovering what that bottle

Some people like dogs. Some people only like big dogs. I don’t blame them. Big dogs are real dogs—a man’s dog. They eat a man-sized meal and take a man-sized crap. They can down a steak in one gulp and leave you a gift the size of a baseball glove when you screw up. Boston took one hell of a dookie on the Philadelphia Phillies. The pinstriped NL Pennant champs returned to the scene of their May skid hoping for a Groundhog Day, but got their bats handed to them on a Fenway platter. The trouble didn’t start with a Boston teammate with a catchy nickname like "Dice-K" or by letting a baseball villain called "The Knuckleballer" have his way with you. Not that letting a knuckleballer have their way with you is such a bad thing. You don’t ever know where it’s gonna go. In the dark, that could be quite an adventure. But an adventure is not what the Phillies were hoping for. Baseball isn’t like combing your room for a missing sock or d