Philadelphia Phillies: Speak Softly and Hope for a Big Stick (Satire)

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.

Then music started. I thought I heard a flute played by someone way too happy so I waited for the next break to confirm. Sure enough my husband turned to me and said, “It’s either merry music night or Irish Heritage Day.”

I’m Irish—I understand the connection. I’m living proof that everything in Ireland was conceived over whiskey.  I think there’s even a sheep joke in there somewhere. And someday someone will question the tradition of kissing a stone named for bullshit.

Pat Burrell was back. He whacked a two-run homer in his first at-bat to distract from the fact that "snug" is how he now likes to wear his pants.

Just another reason to question his move to the bay area.

As I scanned the fielders with my binoculars, I noticed that all the Giants’ pants seemed a little clingy, raising only more questions.

Like how that new Victoria’s Secret bra works. It claims it remembers your curves. I don’t want a bra that remembers my curves, I want one that fakes some.

You know, they asked Sarah Palin if she had breast implants. My friend Jimi said she was trying to avoid the flat tax.

Just once I wish someone would ask me if I got a boob job. My husband says I should stick with the magnifying mirror. Let me give it a try. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, can I buy boobies at the mall?”

No answer. Just like talking to my husband, I don’t know if that’s a "yes" or a "no."

So let’s talk shop.

Phillies pitcher Ryan Madson—like the emperor—has found his groove. I just wish he'd do it without clothes.

Roy Oswalt’s dead arm has found life. I’m now guaranteed the big O every five games whether or not I have a headache.

In game two against the Giants, Jimmy Rollins was 3 for 5, slammed a three-run homer, almost hit for the cycle, stole three bases, and scored twice. Like my name on the bathroom wall, Fanavision didn’t have room to list all his accomplishments.

Charlie Manuel has used his 1,380,956th lineup this season. I’m exaggerating. That’s what people do when they catch a scrawny fish or marry a short guy.

I think Pablo Sandoval got even bigger between games one and two. Or maybe the camera adds ten pounds a game.

Jayson Werth didn’t make the cover of Sports Illustrated but he’s somewhere in the center. The problem is he’s fully dressed. It’s not even a scratch and sniff.

Citizens Bank Park celebrated its 99th consecutive sellout. That’s impressive. I have yet to make it through that many bottles of beer on the wall.

Chase Utley returned from the DL and got a standing ovation. My sister gets those—when she walks into Neiman-Marcus.

And I see pistachios are now being sold at Citizens Bank Park. They’re tasty, but the pack is small and the price is high. I can’t pay a dollar a nut. The two I’m familiar with aren’t even worth that.

If they’re trying to sell healthier snacks they might want to reconsider training their sales force. A girl walked by in the sixth inning selling "postichios."

I almost bought a pack to see what a gay nut tastes like.

On that note, if you’re a transvestite dressed as Lady Gaga, are you really a boy or a girl?

At one point in the game, the two guys in front of us left their seats. Two cute, young, shapely, blond squatters took their place, giggling with delight at upgrading their view. (Like a center field seat is so much closer. Where were they sitting, New Jersey?)

An inning later, the guys returned; Mr. Cranium led the way. I was curious to hear what a tall, handsome season ticket holder with a tray full of food, beer bottles tucked between the fingers of one hand, and no wedding band would say to a sweet pair of co-eds hoping to share.

How ‘bout, “You’re in my seat.”

I think he’s a closet Giants fan.

Celtic music started to play and the Phanatic jumped onto the Phillies dugout accompanied by a line of performers. My son said, “Look mom, it’s Lord of the Prance.”

“That’s Lord of the Dance.”

My husband said, “When did Pat Burrell’s pants get so tight?”

Then the vendor shuffled by, “Hey, get your 'postichios' here!”

Welcome to Irish Heritage Day.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter.

Read more Philadelphia Phillies news on BleacherReport.com

Ode To Carlos Ruiz or If It Weren’t for Those New Stalker Laws

 

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):

Ode to Carlos

The guy behind home plate

Hails from another place

Van Halen praised it in a song

Our hero’s home’s in Panama

I’m gonna have that tattooed on my behind.

Trust me, there’s plenty of room.

Honey, does this tattoo make my pants look ass?

When it comes to another player I adore, I’ve often referred to what he does best as The Placido Effect. That’s what happens to me when Polanco wears pinstripes. That guy makes me so breathless I get a side-ache.

Besides his bald head looks like a bowling ball. And I have a thing for bowlers. There’s just something about running my fingers over those smooth ceramic balls that makes me sweat.

I guess that’s why they have those little blowers.

Hold on, my son has a question: “Why does Jayson Werth grow a beard and then shave it off?”

“Because he can,” I said.

My husband looked at him and said, “It’s the same excuse your mom uses.”

Speaking of excuses, the new guy on the block makes none. Mike Sweeney aka Sweeney Mike, cut up the Mets in game one. And when he was tagged “Chevrolet Player of the Game,” he gave credit where credit was due: “Brad Lidge came in and closed the door—as always.”

My husband said, “Sweeney’s played a lot of ball—he hasn’t seen a lot of ball.”

And what’s up with Cole Hamels? It’s like he’s being punked. He had eight no decisions coming into his eighth loss and I don’t know how many of those were due to lack of run support.

I have an underwire from Victoria’s Secret that gives me more support than that.

My husband says nothing gives me that much support.

Hey, at least my boobs make other girls' boobs look big.

So I’m not a busty woman. Like I always say, I’m Irish—I’m not even human.

In any case, the Phils can’t win ‘em all. If they did that with three guys missing from the lineup, it’d give Ruben Amaro, Jr. a complex—if he doesn’t already have one. He’s been chastised for trading away prospects to get what he could have had in the first place—three top notch pitchers, including one who compLEEtes me.

As a result, Cliff Lee now has some tough Texas company. His mound-mate, Dustin Nippert, was hit in the head by a line drive but stood up simply rubbing his owie.

I’m not saying he’s hard-headed but the ball deflected off his skull and landed in left field. It was almost caught by the outfielder. That’d been a 1-7 putout.

I’ll bet that guy never gets brainfreeze.

Is brainfreeze one word or two? I know, I’ll consult the fictionary.

They say everything’s bigger in Texas. Thank God it didn’t hit him in the crotch. The ball would have landed in the seats. That would’ve made one hell of a souvenir. I wonder if you could get that authenticated. They’d call it an HBD. That’s hit-by…

Well, you get the point.

My husband says I have to wrap this up. He’s hungry and wants to eat at this new place.

Hold on. “Honey, I don’t know if I want to eat at a place called The Eulogy. Are you trying to tell me something?”

He said, “You’re Irish. What do you have to lose?”

He’s lucky he’s a bowler.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

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Read more Philadelphia Phillies news on BleacherReport.com

Philadelphia Phillies: The Placido Polanco Effect

 

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 sorry, I meant clean him off.

Then there’s Placido Polanco. He’s my vote for greatest spaz at third base. And now he’s playing Chase Utley quite well at second. Polly rules the Phillie Playmate of the Week pinup in my head and excites me so that I extend to him my highest rating yet—.

Wait, my husband says I can’t say that on public access. Let’s just call the third baseman my own Steely Dan.

Jimmy Rollins is back as the renewed leadoff hitter, Shane Victorino is stealing bases so fast I had to check to see if I still had my pants, and the Jayson Werth signs are back. Whatever Greg Gross is giving out, I’m sure it’s a secret and illegal and I want some.

Now that the lineup is hitting, Ruben Amaro, Jr can turn his attention to pitchers not named Hamels or Halladay. I hate to see him scrape the bank account dry but it’s not like he hasn’t tried some insiders.

We’ve seen Antonio Bastardo, Sergio Escalona, and I even had a dream that Brett Myers was back. But they were all gone by sunup.

Then there’s Scott Mathieson: He’s had more elbow surgeries than he has elbows. At this point why wouldn’t he just have them remove those ligaments altogether. Then he could be like RA Dickey, throw the elusive knuckleball, and set the record for most wild pitches in an inning.

Or he could find a side job as a contortionist. Either way, he’s wowing people.

Andrew Carpenter is a name that comes and goes like Hugh Hefner’s wives.

And who the hell is Vance Worley? He was gone before I could pull up the 25 man roster that bore his name. Now he’s mentioned as a candidate for a trade. It’s like the bullpen’s in a game of hide and seek.

Not long ago the Phils had a guy named Dane Sardinha catching pitches from the unknown Mike Zagurski.

Did you know Zagurski is Polish for “No neck?”

I thought not.

Did you know Dane is from Hawaii and his name rhymes with Shane so he and Victorino are neighbors?

Okay, maybe not. That was judgmental of me. It’s like saying since Pamela Anderson and I both have breasts we must be equally as buoyant.

We all know there’s no comparison. She’s like her own personal life vest. Well, unless she gets deflated. Unlike a guy, there’s nothing Viagra can do for her.

Men have all the options. They virtually pull up to the pharmaceutical air compressor when it’s honky-tonk time while girls have to wear their sex appeal around like a BabyBjörn.

Okay, maybe baby Björns are just what mine look like.

Wait, I’m completely off the subject. Where were we?

I know, things that interest me the most: sweaty men in uniform not married to me.

See, if I put it that way, my husband can’t put on a fancy hat, stand in the sun for a second, and think he has a chance without Tequila. I tell him that’s why The Village People haven’t staged a comeback—like a Charlie Manuel pinup, I think it’s illegal.

Like me going for a swim at the Playboy mansion. I can pay my way into the public pool but a fake bunny tattoo doesn’t get me into Hugh’s place even with my A-cup discount.

Besides childbirth has left me a little leaky—plus my stream now pulls to the right. If Pamela and I were in the pool together I’d have to stand to her left when I have to sneeze, especially if Hugh has that blue indicator in the pool.

I’m like a peeing ventriloquist.

I’m sorry. My husband says that’s too much information.

Speaking of my beau, he’s now following my blogging progress online. He said, “Dolly Pardon has 674-some thousand followers and you have 56. There are two reasons for that and both of them are holding up her blouse.”

What’s he saying—I need a strap-on chest?

Maybe I need a BigMamma Björn.

My husband says I need more help than that. Even the sharks won’t come for me.

That’s because they know I pee in the pool.

I'm done now.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

 

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NL East Race: The Devil Wears Prado

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 back.

Fat chance. He feels right at home peeking over at old teammate, Aaron Rowand, in center field in San Francisco. But Pat's move to the Bay Area has people wondering about those rumors that he got married—to a girl.

Or maybe I just made that up.

Now the Phillies have three more chances to turn it around against the newly crowned NL Central kings fresh off their six game winning streak.

Perhaps under the lovely shiny arch the Phils will figure out why the early season hitting explosion had an expiration date. Like a Viagra pill for batters, maybe they’ll find something that makes a big, stout piece of wood more effective.

How ‘bout putting Marisa Miller on the mound?

Or just paint her on the center field wall?

Now, you usually only have to glance at stats to tell when a team stinks, but in this case it makes no sense. The Phillies’ lineup leads the division in runs, home runs, RBI, total bases, slugging percentage, intentional walks, extra base hits, and fielding percentage.

They also lead in stolen base percentage because they think like I do: If you don’t steal, you won’t get caught.

And Jayson Werth leads the team with 92 strikeouts—most of which he’s earned since the All-Star break.

That might seem like a rather dubious honor but other players who’ve appeared on the annual “Special K” list are: Babe Ruth, Mickie Mantle, Reggie Jackson, Michael Schmidt, Sammy Sosa, Jim Thome, Adam Dunn, and Ryan Howard—not long before he signed a bank breaking contract.

It’s also possible that those other guys led their league in another important hitting category that Jayson’s failed to conquer. I’d love to investigate this further but I have dishes to do, a cat box to clean, and re-runs of Hawaii Five-O on at three.

Besides we’re staying positive: The Phillies are a better second half team.

The only reason that’s a scary statement is because the current first place team, Atlanta, leads the division in only one stat: on-base percentage. They’re like the Rudolph Valentinos of the NL East. They could sweet talk a girl out of her pants with a timely hit, a little hustle, and enduring patience.

Matter of fact, for their next stadium giveaway they’re handing out EPTs.

Even without extraordinary stats, they’re contenders. And trading off the slacking Yunel Escobar for the slugging Alex Gonzalez is a sure indication that they know this. As long as Brian McCann is the McMan, Chipper Jones continues to take his retirement advice from Brett Favre, and the Mets find the formula to forego flunking late in the season, it’s going to be a tough semester.

So while the Phillies search for the MLB equivalent of the Bunsen burner, I looked for the magic stat that could determine who the next division champ would be. As much as I tried to sway my decision to Philadelphia, the only conclusion I’ve come to is this: The devil wears Prado.

Martin Prado is on course to having a career year. He leads Atlanta in endurance and studliness, and was one of five Braves who made Charlie Manuel’s All-Star roster even though the skipper couldn’t say his name.

Hey, five team members on one All-Star roster? Doesn’t that sound like the 2009 Phillies?

I hate to say it, but if I’ve struck stat gold, Phillies fans might have to settle for good baseball, sexy facial hair, and appealing camera angles this year. Diehards should be asking themselves if they can survive a season unadorned by pennants or trophies or even postseason TV.

Hey, if it’s any consolation, I heard Kim Kardashian has decided to just appear naked in her next season on E!. And Survivor is having a reunion—only breasts and penises are scheduled to compete.

Or maybe I just made that up.

Stay positive.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

 

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter http://twitter.com/ABabesTake

Read more Philadelphia Phillies news on BleacherReport.com

My Cliff Lee Quandary: All My Ex’s Live in Texas

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, Cliffy’s “Dear John” letter traded him to a soggy AL port so Ruben could restock a farm system with guys a lot like the ones he traded for a Cy Young winner he hoped could pitch as well as the Cy Young winner that earned him the only two wins of the last Series.

Did I get that right?

Well, anyway you say it, it broke my heart.

It was like missing a blue light sale by an aisle.

It was like watching any movie by Nicholas Sparks.

It was like finding out Ricky Martin is gay.

And it was like fumbling for your ID at the liquor store and hearing the clerk say, “I won’t be needing that.”

Now the media is teasing Cliffy because he got flustered when someone whispered the name of his ex World Series partner upon his arrival in Texas. That caused him to commit the faux pas of saying he was a Mariner when he was actually obligated to the Rangers.

Cliff, that’s why you never specifically speak a name when you’re in bed together.

Not that I’d know anything about that—darlin’.

I know I’m not alone in wanting him back, and as a devoted fan I’d like something more concrete than reports that Philly is missed by Cliff.

Even a cheesy commitment will do. Something with no legal basis like a promise ring—or a clanky oversized class ring with a tacky stretch of yarn encircling the bottom.

Actually, all it’d take is a steak dinner and a few catchy lines. Come to think of it, if you drive your own car, have enough teeth to eat a steak, and can at least split dinner, I’m yours.

My point is, I don’t care how you do it, just get the job done.

Hold on. What were we talking about?

Oh yeah, Cliff Lee.

I miss his behind the back defense, the way he quick pitches cocky batters, and his ability to yawn while fielding a ball. Don’t get me wrong, I love Roy Halladay. He throws with surgical precision, he’s devoted and proven, and he tossed the perfect game. But in my book there are two perfect number thirty-fours: Cliff and Roy. Call them 34a and 34b if you like, just don’t call them by the wrong name.

Obviously with all the recent whining Ruben’s been doing about his desire for pitching, he knows this too. So when he considers improving his rotation, he should remember one thing: It takes two.

The Phillies and Cliff Lee were meant for each other.

That’s the only way to make that idiot light go out.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter  http://twitter.com/ABabesTake .

Read more Philadelphia Phillies news on BleacherReport.com

Philadelphia Phillies: Who’s Not Enjoying This?

 

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 the last time they even got the ball over the fence?

And when’s the last time we spelled bullpen relief like this: Jose Contreras.

I haven’t had that many questions since I spent the night with Jose Cuervo.

And what about that guy named Placido Polanco? His name doesn’t yet roll off our tongues like Rauuuuul Ibanez, but since the questions surrounding his ability to be effective in the hot corner surfaced at his signing, having a guy named Polly has been nothing less than poetic.

He’s the only guy in the starting lineup still hitting .300-plus and he has the highest fielding percentage of third basemen in the National League.

But when he saved Kyle Kendrick from ruin in the sixth by mounting the tarp, his face had this taunt appearance as if he was up to no good.

I’ve seen the same expression on my dog.

He was having a good time too.

That brings us to the most pleasant surprise of the series—Kyle Kendrick. He was welcomed to the show in 2007 and was up against some heavy hitters for Rookie of the Year like Ryan Braun, Troy Tulowitzki, and Hunter Pence.

Although he’s hardly lived up to the accomplishments of those guys, do we dare hope he’s finally on pace?

Last night he not only had his tempo down, he could lead the marching band. Maybe with the pressure of JA Happ’s return and the question of who’s moving to the bullpen, Kendrick was forced to pitch more like a guy who belongs in the rotation than someone who just got lucky.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The great irony is, three days ago Roy Halladay was considered the key to taking this Yankees series. Instead it was won with a kid that caused my ulcer and a grandpa named Jamie Moyer who’s intent on being the oldest pitcher to do everything.

Wait, that made Jamie sound like my dog.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It might be too early to sing Kyle’s praises—he still walked two and only fanned three, but the composure he showed made him look as stoic as that other strawberry blond, Roy Halladay.

There’s one thing the two hurlers didn’t have in common last night—Kyle Kendrick smiles when things go his way. I saw a big toothy smile.

And barring a great hit here or a good catch there, there’s been a drought of things to smile about lately.

So the big question remains: Have the Phillies turned things around?

That depends. Are you arranging knickknacks in your curio cabinet or talking baseball?

I will say this: There’s no doubt I’d rather be enjoying Phillie wins then munching down on a treat of extraordinary size with a guilty look on my face.

But let’s face it—every game is 27 outs. Charlie went as far as to say if they win every series, they’ll be sitting pretty.

And if they do that, there’s no way I can act like I’m not enjoying it.

Regardless of what my husband says.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved. Catch life one-liner at a time at http://twitter.com/ABabesTake

Read more Philadelphia Phillies news on BleacherReport.com

Philadelphia Phillies: There’s Got To Be a Morning After

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.

Whoa!!! That’ll stir things up. Maybe the Gaga will give me the finger, then me and Mets fans will finally have something in common.

And maybe I’ll finally get the recognition someone else deserves.

Fat chance. Last year I alleged that Charlie Manuel was on performance-enhancing drugs and all I got was a few reads. Poor Jerod Morris of Midwest Sports Fans actually had a basis for making his allegation about Raul Ibanez and he was chastised on national television.

What’s a girl got to do to earn some disrespect?

I know, I'll trade sex for ballpark seats.

My husband says that’s already been done.

Is nothing sacred?!

My brother texted me the reason the Phillies are fumbling: That’s what happens when you quit cheating.

My reply was rich in reasoning and intelligence: You're ugly.

Seriously though, what’s a manager to do? He’s in charge of grown men who play sports professionally. They know their job, they know the game, and they know they get paid millions of dollars to produce. But what if, like the guys who claim to be searching for a solution to the BP spill, Charlie’s out of options?

I don’t think setting off a nuclear bomb will stop the earth from emptying its soul into the Gulf of Mexico and I don’t think setting fire to someone’s fanny will make him hit the ball.

Hey, maybe if I sat on Jayson Werth’s lap it would set something off.

My husband says, “Yeah, the remnants of his lunch.”

He would know. In my house a wind instrument isn’t a clarinet and he calls me the human Whoopie Cushion.

And with that, I think I’ve taken a nose dive into disrespect.

Hopefully I’ve said plenty without saying anything at all. Maybe someone somewhere will appreciate my ability to say nothing of value for long periods of time and decide to give me a chance.

Wait. Isn’t that the prerequisite for public office? I can just see my campaign qualifications: ability to lose train of thought while spouting vividly incoherent sentence fragments.

Hey, it worked for (insert favorite politician here).

I would have written my preference but I don’t discriminate. I even believe bi-partisans should serve in the military.

Now I'm done. Hopefully I've taken a little heat off the home team and spiced up a day that could end in a disappointing series sweep.

I'll say goodbye the same way my husband bids farewell to my son.

Go ahead—pull my finger.

See you at the ballpark.

 

 

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Philadelphia Phillies: What’s Not To Love About Interleague Play?

Some people like dogs. Some people only like big dogs.

I don’t blame them. Big dogs are real dogs—a man’s dog. They eat a man-sized meal and take a man-sized crap. They can down a steak in one gulp and leave you a gift the size of a baseball glove when you screw up.

Boston took one hell of a dookie on the Philadelphia Phillies.

The pinstriped NL Pennant champs returned to the scene of their May skid hoping for a Groundhog Day, but got their bats handed to them on a Fenway platter.

The trouble didn’t start with a Boston teammate with a catchy nickname like "Dice-K" or by letting a baseball villain called "The Knuckleballer" have his way with you.

Not that letting a knuckleballer have their way with you is such a bad thing. You don’t ever know where it’s gonna go. In the dark, that could be quite an adventure.

But an adventure is not what the Phillies were hoping for. Baseball isn’t like combing your room for a missing sock or discovering what that bottle of Tequila did with your pants.

Last night’s game felt like a scavenger hunt for a pitcher who could go more than an inning and wouldn’t leave us in suspense.

That reliever was actually a starter named Kyle Kendrick. I’m hoping that means one thing—JA Happ’s coming back. I could really use a change of scenery in section 145 and Happ has quite a tight backside.

But after giving up three hits in as many innings in his rehab start on Tuesday, the possibility of sticking him in the rotation seven days later seems as improbable as my breasts ever attracting attention.

To add insult to injury, the Sox replaced the mildly effective John Lackey with Boof Bonser.

Obviously that’s a real guy.

Boof has spent his major league career perfecting his 2010 ERA of 18.0. He’s even been spotted moonlighting as a hotdog vendor. Fortunately, tossing dogs to patrons has kept him in shape. So after the opposition took a comfortable lead against a slumping Philly team and Jamie Moyer turned the game into a scrimmage, Terry Francona decided to empty his bench.

He just reached a little far into the stands to do it.

Suddenly we’re not thinking Jamie will be playing with one of his sons in the years to come. The Moyer fleet might just lose its captain.

And that brings us to the million dollar question: How much more faith can Charlie Manuel have in players who aren’t effective?

Answer: Ask Dave Trembley.

Whoa! Now before you get your panties in a bunch (and if you’re wearing boxers you probably already do), remember, I'm just kidding.

I’ve always loved Charlie. Even before the weight loss. I love him as a manager, I adore the way his cheeks rumble when he chomps his gum, and I’m still trying to bribe my way into the locker room.

That might have just gotten easier.

But a slump isn’t something that can be assessed and fixed like a car, and putting mind over matter isn’t like learning to bend spoons.

In other words, having a big dog will only guarantee you one thing: big turds.

Meanwhile, I’m happy waiting around to see the losing streak replaced by another, even if I have to run across the field naked to set the pace.

Hey, there are few things funnier than a tiny naked woman getting Tasered on national television. The good news is those little blurry spots won’t have to be too big to hide my privates.

That’ll be one for the scrapbook.

See you at the ballpark.

 

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Philadelphia Phillies: Who Just Pitched 36-24-36?

 

Roy Halladay ’s figure might be far from perfect, but Saturday he threw a 10.

I watched Roy’s own personal Man Show fittingly on a girl's night out. From a seat at Barnaby’s we celebrated, and were soon joined by a group of guys in traditional Scottish attire.

“Why kilts?” I asked.

“Just exploring our ethnic tradition,” the scholar said. “Wanna peek?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I have one of those at home.”

I wasn’t talking about the skirt.

I don’t have to pull up Roy’s to tell you what’s underneath. Saturday’s performance tells the tale.

Pardon me, I have to change my panties.

Then Sunday I picked up the paper and read the front page headline—“Perfect.”

What I didn’t know was the article that followed was written by immortal columnist Bill Lyon. If you don’t know Bill—I’ll explain.

His Excellency resides in a levitated state above a swirl of melodic words and catchy phrases in a land far, far away. Every now and then he descends through a scripted mist to transmit prose as only he knows.

I imagine the late night email he sent to the Inquirer after Roy’s masterpiece went something like this—“Hi, this is Bill. I’ll take it from here.”

Then he graced us with giblets of sports gospel.

I started to read, sucking down the imagery with the few coherent brain cells that were spared by the eighties, and did the only thing any aging, premenstrual baseball enthusiast would do.

I wept.

That’s right. While my husband confirmed that I’m crazy, I continued to cry. It was hours before I could speak of the game without that curveball lodging in my throat.

I have bats in the belfry—Roy had angels at the plate.

And at Sun Life Stadium in Miami, Florida almost 26 people witnessed it.

The only problem with the ace’s career quest was the scoreboard records whole numbers, and runs are tallied in increments of one.

There are no A’s for effort or badges for courage. A perfect “P” can only be attained if your team scores at least once. Achieving that seemed to be more elusive than my first “O.” But after endless days of struggling to manufacture runs, the game was ironically won on an “E.”

I’m putting out an APB on the long ball.

The Phil’s offense is as frustrated as a middle-aged babe who can’t perfect the fake press pass.

Hypothetically speaking.

Now let’s give credit where it’s due.

Imagine you’re Carlos Ruiz, an unimposing dude from Panama. You experienced brief notoriety this season as the first batter up in an extra innings game against what could be called the best team in the league.

You walked to the plate in the bottom of the tenth knowing you were the eighth guy in the lineup. If it weren’t for the pitcher, you’d have been ninth.

You’re Ugly Betty.

After a first pitch foul touched down aside of the left field pole, you watched two pitches whiz by to move the count to 2-1. Then you recognized the next pitch as your opportunity to straighten it out. You summoned the same swing and briefly admired the ball sailing toward the left center wall. With confidence you pointed to the dugout as you jogged by, rounding first as the man who’d won the game.

Last but not least, you jumped into the pile at home plate knowing you sent a little guy from section 146 home with a souvenir.

I once saw a quote that read, “It pays to be obvious, especially if you have a tendency toward subtlety.” Well, maybe this is the year for Carlos Ruiz. I can’t wait until the day “Chooch” becomes a household name.

Roy gained so much faith in what Doctor Chooch was prescribing, he gave him the honor of calling the game—starting in the sixth.

So Carlos knelt calmly and did what he was told to do—handle the pitchers. And he does that in English and Spanish.

He can whisper sweet nothings in my ear in Swahili for all I care.

I get a hot flash just thinking about it.

At the end of nine, Chooch added a perfect game to his catching resume, and Roy Halladay enhanced his biography.

The last Phillie to do that chose the year 1964. I had just turned two. While Jim Bunning pitched perfectly to 27 batters, I was chiseling my way into my mother’s padlocked medicine case with the claw of my Fisher-Price hammer, intent on getting my fix on children’s aspirin.

Now I just jones for the Phils.

I know they’ll work through their offensive rut but if they don’t, I won’t be the only doe still in season.

Enjoy the rest of this Halladay weekend.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe All Rights Reserved

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter.

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Philadelphia Phillies: Just Another Reason to Rauuuuuuuul!

Finally…time for a blog about something other than the Phillies’ struggles. It's like a long awaited warm summer breeze. Okay, maybe it's not that refreshing, but it's better than hearing, "Mom, the cat puked again..."

Trust me on this.

There’s nothing like ending a 30-inning losing streak to make you feel a little gratitude.

But we had to wait yet another rain delay and four innings before Raul Ibanez hit a blazing line drive that beat speed demon Cameron Maybin to deep center to drive home a flying Ryan Howard.

Cheers sounded the world over, and all the Phils had done was score a run.

Then they tied it at two in the fifth, and pulled ahead by one in the seventh. But like Charlie Manuel says, “We play 27 outs,” and there were six more that had to be snagged before the game was officially a long-awaited win.

Since Chad Durbinator one-two-three’d ‘em in the seventh, Charlie took a risk on schizophrenic Danys Baez. With Danys we just never know who’s gonna show. Now I’m onto him. He has to be brought in at the beginning of an inning, and only play one. Charlie’s onto him too. And it was a plan that worked.

Three batters later, Charlie looked to interim closer, Jose Contreras. He hadn’t faced a professional hitter in a week, and hadn’t seen his team win one in a five-game skid.

It’s possible the sweat that leaked down his cheeks was caused by more than the heat.

M. Night Shyamalan can’t write suspense like this.

"No Way" Jose took the mound and struck out the first batter on a 95 mph fast ball like he had a .63 ERA for a reason. But then the ghost of 2009 Brad Lidge possessed his mind. He allowed back-to-back singles to Jorge Cantu and Dan Uggla—the hitters who make up the Marlins padded middle. And just to show they were serious, Fredi Gonzalez put Brian Barden in to pinch run.

Fingers crossed, toes crossed. I even crossed my cat’s paws.

Gulp. Cody Ross was up. He’s your average stud. He’ll not only foil hits in right field, I’ve even seen him come in to pitch. But he must have been dreaming of his conquests when he was caught window shopping on a 1-2 count. Then Ronny Paulino had no reason to swing on a 2-1 count but he did. He lofted a gift to Shane Victorino, and Jose hoisted his arms in the air.

Phillies 3, Marlins 2.

A one-run win never felt so good.

I think I need a cigarette.

With the region ecstatic over the Flyers feats of strength to get to the Stanley Cup finals all it took was a broken bad streak to lift the dread that preempted last night’s game.

Then the crème de la crème. The Milwaukee Brewers ceased the Mets march of shutouts with a walk-off two-run home run by the Brewers poster child, Corey Hart.

It just can’t get any better than this.

I’m so happy I’m even gracious for Jayson Werth’s new look, and the fact that I only got a glimpse of him for an inning. At first I thought he was on the bench with a bad beard day but then I heard that Charlie thought he needed a break at the plate because he was jumping at the ball.

Here’s an idea. “Jayson, I’m the ball…”

Hey, a girl can dream.

Lao Tzu once said, "Clay is shaped into a vessel, yet it is the emptiness within that makes it useful."

That same thing has been said about my head.

And now that I’m out of thoughts, I’m outta here.

And I’m high hoping. Go Flyers! Go Phillies!

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe All Rights Reserved

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter.

 

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