Philitically Incorrect

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’...

by Cindy Falteich Cougar Lane. That’s where I live. It’s where I swirl big league innuendos into a slurry of revulsion that makes primordial stew look like shepherd’s pie. It’s where visions of man-parts dance in my head and the thinnest calves in major league baseball have now taken center stage. Weeks ago, when there were rumors connecting Hunter Pence to the Phillies, I had one thought: I wish there was a rumor connecting me to Hunter Pence. One that didn’t end in a lengthy court case. It was a report that left my titties hard until well past midnight. And since then I’ve been talking in my sleep. I told my husband I’m talking to sheep. Hey, some people count them, others strike up a conversation. I’m Irish; we fail to communicate in many different languages. But rest assured, the pieces of anatomy that twirl in my dreams aren’t ones I’ve viewed on Twitter. I love nothing more than a glimpse of male skin that seldom catches sun but I’ll make one ...

By Flattish Poe I’m excited that the baseball season is in full swing. My husband was so bored in the offseason, I had to fake a bladder infection just to get some sleep. At first, things for the 2010 division champs looked promising: The February 15th Philadelphia  Inquirer   headlined the sports page with a picture of the five aces—an upgrade from the “Bought and Paid Four”. There they sat with name plates in front (like those were necessary) and the words “Spring Training” and the familiar “P” logo splattered across the back like Christmas wrap. Smiling in   Phillies   red and displaying a surprisingly low level of male pattern baldness , it was a picture I pondered cropping to make a border for my bedroom. Then again, I ponder a lot of things. Like if I change my profile picture on Facebook to a shot of my backside, does that make it Buttbook? I also wonder why I continue to buy bras—I question the necessity to house something I don’t hav...