Philitically Incorrect

I woke up with a stiff neck. The problem is that it lasted more than four hours. For a second, I thought my husband slipped me some Viagra. Someone definitely slipped the Phillies something. They’ve taken the lead in the wild-card race and won twenty or so of their last bunch of games. That was helpful information, wasn’t it? I would’ve looked up the facts but that interferes with worthwhile stuff like plucking chest hairs in my magnifying mirror so I can finally look at my breasts and see 36 double dees. Or watching my dog sniff the cat’s butt for the zillionth time to ensure it’s the same pet he’s lived with for six years. I named my dog Brett Farve—he’s never sure. But I’m sure of one thing: the Phils looked great when we saw them in game one of the series against San Francisco. A guy with a huge cranium and his totally bald friend who was wearing sunglasses on the back of his head took their seats between the plate and me. I felt like I was staring at Vin Diesel. Th

This morning I was greeted by a hair ball, a pet puke, and an offensive odor. Speaking of offensive, I should blog. I’ll start by singing the accolades of my favorite major league catcher. Wait, my husband says it’s too early in the day for me to sing. Actually, he says there’s never a reason for it. I’ll stick with typing and bad poetry. Carlos Ruiz is my half-pint hero. He may be small but he’s really six foot six inches of heart packed into two enormous thighs. I’ve sometimes used that same excuse myself. Like I say, “Does this ass make my pants look big?” Now, hindsight might be 20/20—and often makes experts out of liars, but I’ve posted a few blogs vying for the attention someone else deserves that prove I’ve loved Chooch from afar (only because of those new stalker laws). Last May, I even penned some cheesy poetry on his behalf and because my blogs aren’t worth reading the first time, let alone worthy of review, I’ll copy and paste it here (for your convenience):