When Porn Flies

by Cindy Falteich

According to the official Phillies calendar, the season ended on October 3rd. Normally that’s just a guideline for when the season could end if you’re not a Phillies fan. But this year? Well, let’s just say I know how those Mayans feel.

Contrary to popular belief, the world didn't end on October 3rd. Actually it’s supposed to end on my birthday this year. How ironic that the one good reason to celebrate me for eternity is the world coming to an end.

It also means that the last Phillies game against the Nationals might have been the last Phillies game ever!

Maybe this is my last Phillies blog ever! If that’s the case, there’s reason enough for many to celebrate. Especially those crabby guys on Bleacher Report. It also means I have a lot of players to cover.

Literally.

Where to start?

I know where it ended. When the Phils lost any chance of a playoff birth by sucking in Houston. I tried my best to sit back and enjoy the last nine innings of the year because—look on the bright side—it was the last possible loss.

Then an interesting thing happened. The bona fide, legitimate, undeniable National League wild card winner, the Atlanta Braves, had to play the consolation team for an actual playoff spot.

Whose idea was that? “Hey, let’s have the indubitable wild card victor play the first loser in a death match for instant elimination!”

What is this Hunger Ballgames? In the ninth inning of that tear jerker, Chipper Jones was a hit away from being the next Katniss Everdeen. Until somebody screwed with the playing field.

Let’s just say there’ll never be a pin-up calendar of MLB umpires.

Although Pin the Tail on the Ump is quite popular in many clubhouses.

My dad was wild. He’s a gray-haired, shanty Irish version of Clark Kent but when Atlanta was eliminated by a shot in the dark, he was hot. It didn’t help that Shane Victorino and Hunter Pence were traded mid season. When the shock of that wore off, he called me to say, “Did Amaro wake up and think, ‘Let’s just trade the two guys who hustle the most?’”

Was he drunk?

To that point in time, my dad wasn’t counting the Phillies out of the postseason. At his age, he’s seen stinkier underdogs come out smelling like a rose. But after the trades, I wondered if Ruben Amaro, Jr. should be reminded that his fans filled Citizens Bank Park for like 250 consecutive sellouts and now they think he smells like poo.

Then I saw a stat—one of those that reminded me that shedding salary takes its toll: “The purchase of Phillies-related products has declined by 60 percent."

To pad the pain they continued, “Even at the ballpark, Phils officials conceded they're selling less of practically everything but the quirky Phanatic caps and Carlos Ruiz merchandise.”

I have an idea. How about a quirky Carlos Ruiz cap? One where he looks like he’s sitting on my head.

Am I the only one who thinks the MLB channel is like daytime porn?

I wonder if apparel sales are why the Phillies took the $5 million option on Ruiz for 2013. They should give Carlos his own merchandise table at the ballpark. Like a rock star. Or at least give him tight leggings and a groupie.

Does this mean I can flash him my breasts?

My husband says, “Nobody can tell what they are.”

What if I flash them in Spanish?

I, for one, would like to have some input when it comes to Ruiz apparel. I vote to have Carlos wear as little as possible. 

I love a man with an accent who’s equipped with protective armor and is the defender of home plate. He’s like the Thor of my own little baseball fantasies.

Fantasies are even better when you mistake hot flashes for horniness.

Hey, don’t judge me! The world’s about to end and I’m way behind on my Phil-itically incorrect behavior. And although many people claim to have experienced what the afterlife is like, no one has ever confirmed that Anthony Weiner was guided by angels.

I still have to look up the spelling of his name. I just can’t remember that it’s ‘i’ before ‘e’ except after weenie. I wish there was a catchy song to remember it by. Maybe I’ll work on one. 

Oh, that politician has a last name that’s really hard to spell.
A tasty wiener and his wang have both been known to swell.
Oh, the next time that he strokes his schlong
Hope he recalls where it belongs
Cyberspace is not the place for instagrams from P-R hell.

Remember, Anthony, it’s pubic hair, not public hair.

In heaven I bet white is the new dirty.

Did I tell you I believe Mormons created Viagra?

I could be wrong. If they did, the disclaimer would probably go something like this: “If you experience an erection that last more than four wives…”

My husband says, “…call your doctor and tell her to bring more condoms.”

Mormons must love baseball. Like me, they prefer things that come in threesomes. 

Does that make me Mormon? I’ve always wanted my own wife. 

My husband can’t even speak right now.

Of everything that happened this season, the thing that hurt the most was Juan Pierre’s move to the bench. 

He has a lifetime .300 average and 30 steals for the umpteenth time in his career. A man who can round the bases with that speed would get more respect on Match.com.

Hey, the Braves hired a chick. To announce this time. That’s a first in major league history. When she interviews a player perhaps they should simulate a real conversation with a man and point the camera directly at her breasts.

The Miami Marlins have oysters for sale at the ballpark. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad idea. 

Depends on if you ask my parole office.

So the Phillies season ended before I could wear my official Phillies parka and my team stocking hat compliments of the Cabrini College giveaway. Look on the bright side, at least the soccer playoffs are in full swing.

Hey, is it true David Beckham models underwear while he’s playing?

I’ve never been with a man who can work only with his feet. 

One thing is certain: Anthony Weiner doesn’t play soccer.

See you at the ballpark.



Check me out at www.cindyfalteich.com or read my new book The Aliquot Sum, available at Barnes & Noble or Amazon.