Philitically Incorrect

My friend, Dave, got this message on his Fitbit: "I hope that was 10,000 steps. If not, you're about to go blind." I wonder if George Jetson got jerked around like that by Rosie. Sometimes a joke is about the right choice of words. That means s ome of you got that and some of you will be dumbfounded until Tuesday. That's okay. Stream a few episodes of The Bachelor  and your brain will again cease to function. So, I broke my toe. This makes the fact that Donald Trump is still President that much more annoying.  And the fact that the Brewers left Milwaukee to show the Phils what a top-tier offense looks like, is as disappointing as a Philly cheesesteak made with real cheese. That shit should come from cows in a can. Like real food. By the way, the Phillies are the worst team leading a division. The NL East also boasts the worst team in baseball. You can count the Marlins' wins on two hands and this includes a whopping 1 of their last 10.  They've become ...

Now that Bryce Harper swiped right on the Phillies, the acquisition has created more buzz than the electric line that came down in another freaking area snowstorm.  By this time in Philadelphia, two things are evident: Punxsutawney Phil is full of crap and we need a distraction. That's where I come in. Since Harper has monopolized the headlines for weeks, it's time to make this all about me.  This whole ordeal had the makings of a Harlequin romance—tease you for 200 pages but never get you off. Until John Middleton tapped into his inner E.L. James.  I haven’t felt this level of enthusiasm since Hunter Pence crossed the Schuylkill with chicken legs . His signing excited me so, it was the beginning of the end of my contribution to Bleacher Report . Hey,  I did what I did because love came to town . Now I’m hoping Harp’s contract will be the start of something beautiful. I need new fodder and Broad Street is horny for another parade. Bryce Harper Ign...

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...