Philadelphia Phillies: Speak Softly and Hope for a Big Stick

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.

Then music started. I thought I heard a flute played by someone way too happy so I waited for the next break to confirm. Sure enough my husband turned to me and said, “It’s either merry music night or Irish Heritage Day.”

I’m Irish—I understand the connection. I’m living proof that everything in Ireland was conceived over whiskey.  I think there’s even a sheep joke in there somewhere. And someday someone will question the tradition of kissing a stone named for bullshit.

Pat Burrell was back. He whacked a two-run homer in his first at-bat to distract from the fact that "snug" is how he now likes to wear his pants.

Just another reason to question his move to the bay area.

As I scanned the fielders with my binoculars, I noticed that all the Giants’ pants seemed a little clingy, raising only more questions.

Like how that new Victoria’s Secret bra works. It claims it remembers your curves. I don’t want a bra that remembers my curves, I want one that fakes some.

You know, they asked Sarah Palin if she had breast implants. My friend Jimi said she was trying to avoid the flat tax.

Just once I wish someone would ask me if I got a boob job. My husband says I should stick with the magnifying mirror. Let me give it a try. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, can I buy boobies at the mall?”

No answer. Just like talking to my husband, I don’t know if that’s a "yes" or a "no."

So let’s talk shop.

Phillies pitcher Ryan Madson—like the emperor—has found his groove. I just wish he'd do it without clothes.

Roy Oswalt’s dead arm has found life. I’m now guaranteed the big O every five games whether or not I have a headache.

In game two against the Giants, Jimmy Rollins was 3 for 5, slammed a three-run homer, almost hit for the cycle, stole three bases, and scored twice. Like my name on the bathroom wall, Fanavision didn’t have room to list all his accomplishments.

Charlie Manuel has used his 1,380,956th lineup this season. I’m exaggerating. That’s what people do when they catch a scrawny fish or marry a short guy.

I think Pablo Sandoval got even bigger between games one and two. Or maybe the camera adds ten pounds a game.

Jayson Werth didn’t make the cover of Sports Illustrated but he’s somewhere in the center. The problem is he’s fully dressed. It’s not even a scratch and sniff.

Citizens Bank Park celebrated its 99th consecutive sellout. That’s impressive. I have yet to make it through that many bottles of beer on the wall.

Chase Utley returned from the DL and got a standing ovation. My sister gets those—when she walks into Neiman-Marcus.

And I see pistachios are now being sold at Citizens Bank Park. They’re tasty, but the pack is small and the price is high. I can’t pay a dollar a nut. The two I’m familiar with aren’t even worth that.

If they’re trying to sell healthier snacks they might want to reconsider training their sales force. A girl walked by in the sixth inning selling "postichios."

I almost bought a pack to see what a gay nut tastes like.

On that note, if you’re a transvestite dressed as Lady Gaga, are you really a boy or a girl?

At one point in the game, the two guys in front of us left their seats. Two cute, young, shapely, blond squatters took their place, giggling with delight at upgrading their view. (Like a center field seat is so much closer. Where were they sitting, New Jersey?)

An inning later, the guys returned; Mr. Cranium led the way. I was curious to hear what a tall, handsome season ticket holder with a tray full of food, beer bottles tucked between the fingers of one hand, and no wedding band would say to a sweet pair of co-eds hoping to share.

How ‘bout, “You’re in my seat.”

I think he’s a closet Giants fan.

Celtic music started to play and the Phanatic jumped onto the Phillies dugout accompanied by a line of performers. My son said, “Look mom, it’s Lord of the Prance.”

“That’s Lord of the Dance.”

My husband said, “When did Pat Burrell’s pants get so tight?”

Then the vendor shuffled by, “Hey, get your 'postichios' here!”

Welcome to Irish Heritage Day.

See you at the ballpark.

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

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