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): ...

So, I’m watching TV waiting for these people to get eaten by sharks when a thought crosses my mind: They can’t get eaten—they’re telling the story. But wait. I can only see them from the neck up. Perhaps someone lost a limb. There is hope. There is hope for a pennant too. That same “Throw them to the sharks” mentally is what Phillies fans are notorious for, so will they sigh with content at two straight four-game sweeps at home or will they expect the team to go in for the kill? I’m not suggesting the Phillies will have to claw and scrape their way to the top of the division but it sure is nice to attain something with the effort the team has extended lately. Take Ryan Howard for instance. He’s my vote for hardest working first baseman in America. It’s easy to observe his greatness, especially when he’s playing opposite Jason Giambi. Ryan was sliding and diving and working so hard he looked like he was dipped in chocolate sprinkles. Someone should lick him off. I’m sorr...

Things have certainly not been going well. It might be the Year of the Pitcher somewhere, but not in Philadelphia. I’m sorry. Perhaps that wasn’t supportive. Let’s petition to focus only the positives. I’ll start: Jimmy Rollins is the current active leader in consecutive steals, Placido Polanco is back from the DL with his team-leading batting average, and Ryan Howard leads the league in RBI. Jayson Werth, however, has developed an unexplained aversion for touching his bat to the ball. Someone should tell him it won’t make you blind. Here’s another petition: stop the Tweet-volume graphs on the game recaps. There’s nothing more irrelevant to the game. It’s no secret that the volume of twits tweeting about the Phils is directly proportional to stuff happening during the game. It’s just as circumstantial as the level of disgust rising in my house when my husband uses the john. It’s not rocket science. Supposedly things are so bad people are petitioning to get Pat Burrell b...

I drive a Honda CRV. It might be the first of its kind; it could be the prototype. There is nothing modern about it. The only gauge I have measures gas; mileage stacks up via flipping digits, and mechanical failures are indicated when the appropriate circle lights up red. Some people call them idiot lights. That’s because when they glow, idiots wait a few weeks to see if they’ll go out—all by themselves. I think Ruben Amaro Jr. has a few on. The problem is there’s one that won’t go out all by itself. Admittedly he’s concerned about pitching. And admittedly he has what it takes to get what he wants. That can only mean two things: Jayson Werth should keep the beard to accent his sex appeal for a trade and the love affair with Cliff Lee continues to be the quintessential story. Where do I begin To tell the story of how great a team can be A great love story ‘bout the man they call Cliff Lee Another year with a World Series victory Oh, Ruben please. The way I understand it,...

Yesterday, my son wanted to go to the Dairy Queen. Since I’m trying to eat healthy, I inquired about the selections they had that didn’t resemble candy. The girl offered me a chocolate covered banana. I said, “That’s it? Don't you have a more phallic desert?” Obviously not. So when she handed the treat my way, one thing crossed my mind: I’ll have to hold this in a way that makes me look like I’m not enjoying it. But there’s no way I can hide my pleasure about the series win in the Bronx. Everyone’s thinking the bat formation in front of Chase Utley’s locker before the Thursday whooping was the series clincher, but I believe there’s only one thing that can cause a change this profound: Charlie Manuel is on performance-enhancing drugs. Of course I’ve alleged that before. But how else do you explain Greg Dobbs getting a hit, Raul Ibanez stealing a base, or the Phils finding a rally without Jimmy Rollins? When’s the last time the team hit back-to-back homers? When’s t...

Charlie Manuel shuffled the lineup again. That’s good, I like adding something new to the same old routine. Just like me, Charlie must have a drawer he goes to when things go stale. Hypothetically speaking. I imagine the Phils are scraping the barrel on superstitions by now. At this point they’re probably wearing children’s panties, playing hopscotch on the way through the clubhouse, and buttering their Pop-Tarts from right to left. You heard me. Butter on Pop-Tarts. It covers all four food groups: butter, sugar, flavor, and crust. But honestly, it’s time to really shake things up. I’ll start. This babe’s opinion of what the Phillies are missing is heart. The team has as many errors in about 60 games as they did all last season, and figures suggest that aliens abducted the real Phils in mid-May. But most importantly, I’m beginning to think the only reason they looked so good was because the competition was so bad. It’s the same concept behind Lady Gaga selling records. ...