Philitically Incorrect

At the tender age of two, my son pushed a Hot Wheels car into the VCR slot. And it fit. Little did I know, this is the same type of infantile curiosity that would birth an app called Tinder. On that note, I saw a report about the spread of super gonorrhea. This was enlightening to me because I figured out that all this time I've been spelling my password wrong. Judging from the slow spread of disease, things are not going well. In the four years since my last post, the Phillies have failed to break 500 and following suit, things have gone from bad to worse: Kim Kardashian's behind got even bigger. Her derrière will go down in history as the Crown Jewel of Butts. And our country has the dubious honor of putting her there. Well done 'Merica. The Voice  started season 16 after only 8 years on TV. Instead of measuring accelerated time in dog years, we'll start calling them Voice years. Oddly, Blake Shelton has been so pickled through it all, he hasn't aged a ...

Sadly, by Cindy Falteich It’s time once again to face my certain mortality by compiling a grocery list of things no one would ever buy. It's much like the stuff you look forward to but are happy when it’s over—like the holidays. Or sex with your husband. Or mine. Or Super Bowl XLIX. What the hell number is that anyway? Is that a niner in there? Guys, let’s stop pretending we’re Egyptian. Or Greek. Or Thai. Or smart. In any case, the average football fan has no idea what you’re talking about. For Pete’s sake, I thought XLIX was the name of a drug. Or E.L. James had coined another term for erotic. Or it was a test. If we’ve learned anything from politics, it should be that we hate thinking. Anyway, as I sit here pondering my pre-death desires, I hopped on Facebook. Isn’t that what everyone does when faced with an important decision? I get the best ideas from intimate stuff that’s been shared publicly. Like an STD. My son tells me I should watch Vine vid...

by Cindy Falteich For the first time in a long time, the Phillies are bottom-feeders. They’re scrounging for a W in a division defined not by wins, but by those who float to the top with the fewest losses. Where unfamiliar names like Pierre, Nix, Orr, and Wigginton patch holes in an offense wounded by the premature expectations of something greater. Sounds like my honeymoon. The Phillies can’t win, my husband is out of town, and I’m about to get my period. It’s time to get down and dirty. Did you know there’s not a synonym for “dildo” on Thesaurus.com ? You probably didn’t. How embarrassing. You also can’t find the cure for an impotent lineup. I keep thinking Charlie has a secret weapon up his sleeve—a chant, a strip-o-gram, a superstition—something he does before reporters are allowed to enter the locker room.  Wait, we might not want to see that. Maybe there’s something he says that players are threatened not to repeat—like the things I say around my so...

by Cindy Falteich Crickets and crows. That’s what we’re reduced to. The songbirds that tweeted their 140 character posts from dawn till dusk have exploited the north and closed their accounts. The weeds that grew like beanstalks have begun to grey, a reminder that their exoskeletons will haunt me until our first big snow. And today it took only a breeze to rain leaves. It all means just one thing: the postseason has rushed in like a brisk wind. Or I’m just feeling the effects of tacos. Growing up in the Midwest made me appreciate how short a 162 game season can be. Summers were abbreviated by camping trips, fish flies and fears of flood. By this time each year my little brother would empty the yard of crab apples by smacking them one-by-one with his plastic bat into the lawn across the street, dreaming that each one that pitted the siding cleared the wall at a major league stadium almost 200 miles away. At County Stadium. That’s where Robin Yount and Pau...

by Cindy Falteich Well, the inevitable happened. On August 2nd, 2011, I was censored off the blog site  The Bleacher Report . They said my posts were over the limit on their content criteria and I had failed the limbo with my language. Much like the Game Commission, they were hunting for violators and I’d been tagged. (The blog that started the ending is  here .)  I said,  “ I shouldn't be held responsible. I only did what I did because love came to town." It didn't matter. Obviously relaying my honest intentions regarding the bodies of major league players is immoral, especially when the site has highly intelligent life forms posting articles like ‘Sexy American Wags’ or ‘40 Hottest MLB Wags’ or ‘One Night Stand Wags’ (WAG = Wives and Girlfriends). I mean there’s nothing more offensive than reading the secret thoughts of a middle-aged MILF when guys are secretly stroking in the john with their ‘Wag of the Week.’ Fortunately for you, I’...

I’ll be honest. I don’t watch postseason trades. I find them as futile as foreplay after forty or light beer chasers. But when I read that the phenomenal uniform philler-outer, Jayson Werth, had been signed by a division rival, I burned my bra in defiance. Then I just had to buy a new one. That’s when I made an important discovery: Not everything expands when it’s cold. In this era of disclaimers, stipulations, and legal litigation, let me make one thing vividly clear: I’d still do Jayson Werth. But some people thought I’d take the news hard. Hard? Hell, at least he didn’t run up the phone bill and stick my toothbrush someplace dreary when he left. Besides, who can blame him? Like my husband said, “It's just a man taking care of his family." Considering a few years ago he questioned whether he’d ever play ball again, I take my hat off to him. Okay, maybe a few other pieces of clothing too. And the   Nationals : Was it an accident that a team hoping to fill i...