March 6, 2015

The Phillies' Early Season Skid: Do We Need to Grease That With Something?

The bad news is the Phillies dropped the first game of Spring Training. The worse news is, it was to the University of Tampa. I can honestly say I think the Phils were hoping that would go differently.

Look on the bright side. Tampa is the No. 1 ranked team in the NCAA Division II. They easily edged out Taco Bell and Kentucky Fried Chicken for the spot.

Maybe we can get a game against the Harlem Globetrotters? Or how about these guys:

Donkey Baseball

Interim and now possibly permanent club President, Pat Gillick, claims if the existing players stay healthy, a .500 season is attainable. In other words, our goal of mediocrity is well within reach.

Speaking of Pat Gillick? Way to bring in new blood. What’s the problem? Wasn’t Kevin Bacon available?
Bacon Made of Bacon

I’ll be glad when the team is back in Philly. It’s embarrassing to lose to amateurs. Besides, I always get spring training confused with spring break. The former is when everyone who thinks they can score shows up and peacocks around the playing field hoping for a run around the bases. The latter is… well, you understand my confusion.

At my age, I’d be far more interested in what’s happening in Clearwater if the Snack Factory would cease making dark chocolate covered pretzel crisps. I’m a sucker for anything “crisp.” That’s because Google put “bacon” in it.

I don't make this stuff up.

My husband accused me of being crisp. And all along I thought I smelled like toast.

He says I’m confused.

I think we’ve already established that.

Let’s practice optimism, shall we? Now that it’s next year, we can sit in anxious anticipation that the Phils will be a lot better than last year—something that will last until the All Star break when finger pointing will start and Ruben Amaro, Jr. will still be chastised for breaking Cliff Lee’s spirit.

That’s what they mean by "Never forget."

They should write that on the back of a wedding limo.

So maybe this year becomes next year too. Trust me, there’s always something you can put off until next year. Last year I did that with my Christmas shopping. Saved a fortune.

And next year my New Year’s resolution is to remember Lent. That’s the month where interestingly, just when we’ve reached the level of civilization where there’s ample access to everything, we have to give something up.

But it’s not that hard. There’s so much worthless crap. I could skip a whole grocery aisle and never suffer. Like produce. Or the “All Natural” aisle. When we can manufacture chicken nuggets out of man-made material, why do we even need food?

Besides, we should be doing more of this:

In any case, since I’m unwilling to give up my dark chocolate covered pretzel crisps for Lent, I could definitely stop smearing them with peanut butter.

I’ll switch to fondue. It’s so much easier to wear.

And to wash out.

Honestly, I don’t know why I have to sacrifice anything. I’m a Phillies fan. Isn’t that enough?

I wish my hair would sacrifice looking like crap. When I see people I say, “How does my hair look?” just to watch an expression build on their face that looks like an affliction.

My hair likes to defy everything. Just when nothing about it looks intentional, it will strive to look even worse.

Like our team. In the off-season, Jonathan Papelbon made it clear he wanted out. That will definitely work in his favor. Can’t wait to hear his entrance song. Bet it rhymes with Papelboo.

Chase Utley would have gotten a trade if the AARP started a team. And if they did, women would still flock to the stadium to enjoy his backside. They’d just need stronger glasses.

I prefer binoculars. From everywhere in the park. Hey, there are a lot of handicaps in the world. I simply haven’t found one yet that makes what I do legal.

Cole Hamels wanted an excuse to skip town. Seems as though, at this point in his career, he’d also like the chance to play for a winner.

Is it me or were these guys starters last year? I don't get it. Maybe we need to fill the dugout with this:

More bacon!
What’s the warranty on a trade anyway? The three guys who replaced Cliff Lee back when Ruben Amaro forgot why he had 257 consecutive sellouts haven’t performed as hoped. They all failed to achieve baseball immortality while Cliffy, the big red pin-striped hope, is wasting the last year of his contract (and possibly his career) with a team where players are scheming for an exodus.

This won’t feel so bad when they’ve all been married a few more years. That’s also a place where there are no returns. Next thing you know they’ll file for divorce just to sit next to someone who’s competent at arguing.

If history has proven anything, it's that next time they should trade for bacon. With enough crispy, smoked pork and aluminum foil, I could survive the Armageddon. And with the way things are going, it might just be me and the cockroaches sitting at Citizens Bank Park. Unless the Phils grease their palms with that crispy cured delight.

Wait. Maybe they already have. Check this out:

Even Comcast SportsNet is catching on:
Phillies fans need to believe in something and it might as well start with America’s favorite nitrate-laced treat. Or maybe we need some new teams in the league to dilute the talent.

By the way, when’s the next expansion?

My husband says the day after I finish that bag of pretzels.

Hey, I resemble that comment.

See you at the ballpark.

To view Cindy's awesome new website, click here.
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To read The Aliquot Sum, a novel by Cindy Falteich, click here.
It's written for the new-adult genre which means it's spicy. And it will soon to be major motion picture!

Thanks for reading! Copyright © 2015 Cindy Falteich, All rights reserved.

February 24, 2015

The Non-annual, Bi-frequently, Semi-periodic Philadelphia Phillies Bucket List

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 videos. He says in six second intervals I can get everything I need.

I’m married. No duh.

Now, when I thought about the organization of my list, I considered bullets or numbers or pinning the tail on Chase Utley’s butt. I even tried little Ben Revere silhouettes but I couldn’t get them to stand still. So I settled for the rant. Not only is the rant my favorite form of communication, it’s possibly the least effective one.

In that case, it’ll work quite well. I strive to be different but I’ve been called much worse.

Without further ado, here’s my list:

I want to drive the Bullet Mustang down I-76 so fast I travel through time and crash into Steve McQueen in a provocative position in a time period before those stalker laws took effect.

I’m far too familiar with them.

When my child whines because of a sliver, I’d like to find it without renting an electron microscope.

I want to know why semi-annual bra sales happen every other month.

Like my mom, I want to go to a turtle feed. I imagine nothing says you’re a wimp like calling yourself a “turtle hunter.” Why not wait until they hibernate and buy some expensive insulated gear so you can pluck a snoozing turtle from his sleeping frozen brood. Like a man.


I want boob jobs to come in really fun shapes so when I refer to them in a cute way, people can say, “Yes, you could definitely call those 'cup cakes'.”

I want the Phillies lineup molded in chocolate.

I want a pair of shoes so cute they get me laid—by a stranger.

I want to see Kim Kardashian talk a cop out of a traffic ticket on two hours of sleep and baby burp in her hair.

I want pimples to be considered accessories. And I want designer stickers I can place around them so they look like they’re intentional.

I want it to be cool to have your house filled with the aroma of cat shit. Matter-of-fact, I think we should all be more like cats and poop in a box, track litter through the house, and display our pristinely clean naked buttholes as we walk. With attitude. That’s true self-esteem.

Come to think of it, I think I’ll have my cat’s snowy white hole tattooed so he can call more attention to it. At least when he shoves it in my face, I’ll feel like I'm looking at something pricey. Or maybe I’ll get it pierced. I’ll take out the hoop only when I’m not home.

I want wrinkles to be so cool we Photoshop them in instead of out.

I want to smell like toast.

I want chocolate syrup to be considered acceptable office apparel and I want sex therapy to count for college credit.

I want Dr. Ruth nominated for sainthood.

I want a Kama Sutra app. I want it to pick the right sexual position taking in consideration the season, time of day and what my husband has eaten for dinner. Then I want it to honestly tell me whether it’s disgusting that we do it at all.

I want someone to clean out the trash in the back seat of my car. And I want that to be the person who put it there. Cue my child.

I want a messy car to be cool. I want driving a crappy car to be cool. And I think being stranded on the side of the road waiting for AAA should earn you American Express points.

I want giving a bad haircut to be punishable by law.

By court order, I want people who say mean things to take it back.

I want crime to be punishable by spanking. And I want to be the spanker. On that note, I want it to be illegal to be listed as one of People magazine’s sexiest men.

I want a winter jacket that looks like Cliff Lee so I can wear him on my body. I mean … “it” on my body.

I want cup size to be listed on baseball trading cards.

I want baby boomers to stop insulting their parents by saying 60 is the new 50. Your parents were a lot cooler than you at 60. That’s because they didn’t have to pretend they cared what you thought. The truth is, you’re still a little snot.

On that note, fuck “this” is the new “that.” And check your color wheel. Orange will never be freaking black. And you’ll still be a little snot.

I still want Kevin Costner to give me a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts three days. Damn, when will he read my blog?

I want Charlie Manuel and Mike Schmidt to walk around Citizens Bank Park with a portable karaoke machine and sing duets with the masses. I want it broadcast on Phan-a-vision and I want the winner to get a shot at The Voice.

I want congress to be picked by a lottery.

I want Tom Verducci to write my eulogy. And in my will, I’ll denote the person who should abduct him and bring him to the funeral to do that. It might sound like he wouldn’t voluntarily do this and that is correct. That’s why you should always have a plan B.

Most of all, I want Harold Reynolds on a pair of pajamas. Or better yet, in my pajamas. Well, if I wore pajamas I’d want him in them. Note to self: Start wearing pajamas.

So that’s my list. Now that players have reported for duty, I think it’s high time I did too. Baseball is something fans enjoy and I should help them do that. And part of baseball is losing. So by the transitive property, losing should equal enjoyment.

Actually, that’s the Phillies' birthright. It doesn’t matter if you’re on the top or the bottom, as long as no one gets hurt.

Unless you’re E. L. James. Or under her.

See you at the ballpark.


To view Cindy's awesome new website, click here.
To subscribe to Cindy's email list, click here.

Read The Aliquot Sum, a novel by Cindy Falteich.
Written for the new-adult genre.
Soon to be major motion picture!

Thanks for reading! Copyright © 2015 Cindy Falteich, All rights reserved.

November 5, 2012

When Porn Flies

by Cindy Falteich

According to the official Phillies calendar, the season ended on October 3rd. Normally that’s just a guideline for when the season could end if you’re not a Phillies fan. But this year? Well, let’s just say I know how those Mayans feel.

Contrary to popular belief, the world didn't end on October 3rd. Actually it’s supposed to end on my birthday this year. How ironic that the one good reason to celebrate me for eternity is the world coming to an end.

It also means that the last Phillies game against the Nationals might have been the last Phillies game ever!

Maybe this is my last Phillies blog ever! If that’s the case, there’s reason enough for many to celebrate. Especially those crabby guys on Bleacher Report. It also means I have a lot of players to cover.


Where to start?

I know where it ended. When the Phils lost any chance of a playoff birth by sucking in Houston. I tried my best to sit back and enjoy the last nine innings of the year because—look on the bright side—it was the last possible loss.

Then an interesting thing happened. The bona fide, legitimate, undeniable National League wild card winner, the Atlanta Braves, had to play the consolation team for an actual playoff spot.

Whose idea was that? “Hey, let’s have the indubitable wild card victor play the first loser in a death match for instant elimination!”

What is this Hunger Ballgames? In the ninth inning of that tear jerker, Chipper Jones was a hit away from being the next Katniss Everdeen. Until somebody screwed with the playing field.

Let’s just say there’ll never be a pin-up calendar of MLB umpires.

Although Pin the Tail on the Ump is quite popular in many clubhouses.

My dad was wild. He’s a gray-haired, shanty Irish version of Clark Kent but when Atlanta was eliminated by a shot in the dark, he was hot. It didn’t help that Shane Victorino and Hunter Pence were traded mid season. When the shock of that wore off, he called me to say, “Did Amaro wake up and think, ‘Let’s just trade the two guys who hustle the most?’”

Was he drunk?

To that point in time, my dad wasn’t counting the Phillies out of the postseason. At his age, he’s seen stinkier underdogs come out smelling like a rose. But after the trades, I wondered if Ruben Amaro, Jr. should be reminded that his fans filled Citizens Bank Park for like 250 consecutive sellouts and now they think he smells like poo.

Then I saw a stat—one of those that reminded me that shedding salary takes its toll: “The purchase of Phillies-related products has declined by 60 percent."

To pad the pain they continued, “Even at the ballpark, Phils officials conceded they're selling less of practically everything but the quirky Phanatic caps and Carlos Ruiz merchandise.”

I have an idea. How about a quirky Carlos Ruiz cap? One where he looks like he’s sitting on my head.

Am I the only one who thinks the MLB channel is like daytime porn?

I wonder if apparel sales are why the Phillies took the $5 million option on Ruiz for 2013. They should give Carlos his own merchandise table at the ballpark. Like a rock star. Or at least give him tight leggings and a groupie.

Does this mean I can flash him my breasts?

My husband says, “Nobody can tell what they are.”

What if I flash them in Spanish?

I, for one, would like to have some input when it comes to Ruiz apparel. I vote to have Carlos wear as little as possible. 

I love a man with an accent who’s equipped with protective armor and is the defender of home plate. He’s like the Thor of my own little baseball fantasies.

Fantasies are even better when you mistake hot flashes for horniness.

Hey, don’t judge me! The world’s about to end and I’m way behind on my Phil-itically incorrect behavior. And although many people claim to have experienced what the afterlife is like, no one has ever confirmed that Anthony Weiner was guided by angels.

I still have to look up the spelling of his name. I just can’t remember that it’s ‘i’ before ‘e’ except after weenie. I wish there was a catchy song to remember it by. Maybe I’ll work on one. 

Oh, that politician has a last name that’s really hard to spell.
A tasty wiener and his wang have both been known to swell.
Oh, the next time that he strokes his schlong
Hope he recalls where it belongs
Cyberspace is not the place for instagrams from P-R hell.

Remember, Anthony, it’s pubic hair, not public hair.

In heaven I bet white is the new dirty.

Did I tell you I believe Mormons created Viagra?

I could be wrong. If they did, the disclaimer would probably go something like this: “If you experience an erection that last more than four wives…”

My husband says, “…call your doctor and tell her to bring more condoms.”

Mormons must love baseball. Like me, they prefer things that come in threesomes. 

Does that make me Mormon? I’ve always wanted my own wife. 

My husband can’t even speak right now.

Of everything that happened this season, the thing that hurt the most was Juan Pierre’s move to the bench. 

He has a lifetime .300 average and 30 steals for the umpteenth time in his career. A man who can round the bases with that speed would get more respect on

Hey, the Braves hired a chick. To announce this time. That’s a first in major league history. When she interviews a player perhaps they should simulate a real conversation with a man and point the camera directly at her breasts.

The Miami Marlins have oysters for sale at the ballpark. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad idea. 

Depends on if you ask my parole office.

So the Phillies season ended before I could wear my official Phillies parka and my team stocking hat compliments of the Cabrini College giveaway. Look on the bright side, at least the soccer playoffs are in full swing.

Hey, is it true David Beckham models underwear while he’s playing?

I’ve never been with a man who can work only with his feet. 

One thing is certain: Anthony Weiner doesn’t play soccer.

See you at the ballpark.

Check me out at or read my new book The Aliquot Sum, available at Barnes & Noble or Amazon.

August 1, 2012

The Cure for a Trade Hangover

by Cindy Falteich

There was a sign over my grandma’s stove that read:
Even at a young age, I knew I was in trouble. At five, I’d done neither. Now I do neither well.
Speaking of things I do poorly… I’ve been blogging for almost three years. 
That’s a year longer than my husband has experienced satisfying sex.
Okay, maybe I’m giving myself too much credit. That’s at least two years longer than I thought he’d experience satisfying sex.
It’s a sad state of affairs when you have the propensity to do well but your performance has slacked off.
In some parts, it’s a common phenomenon known as marriage.
In others, it’s the 2012 Phillies. The team would be set if there was a Viagra for major league baseball players.
Well, technically, I guess there is. Just not one that helps them round those bases.
As a result, Ruben Amaro, Jr. felt the need to shed payroll. And Shane Victorino and Hunter Pence were sheared like sheep. Before you know it, I'll have nothing left to do but think of my husband when we're having sex.
How could I forget the day Hunter Pence came to town? Twenty-four hours later I was kicked off the community blog site that had embraced me like a stray cat that was pissing on the shrubs.
And all I did was use the word “titties” in context.
I wonder if I can put that on my tombstone.
I’d say epitaph but it sounds like I need a bath.
Hunter, I’ll remember the day you arrived like it was only a year ago.
Wait. It was. That’s probably why it feels like it. Let me see if I feel anything else.
Sorry, my husband says I can’t share that.
I told my teenage son, who knows everything, about the trades. He said, “Schierholtz?”
It might be helpful to tell you he didn’t say it as an inquiry—it was more like the inflection he uses when I tell him to put down his Victoria’s Secret catalog during dinner.
Like this: “Schierholtz?!”

Or the same voice I use to answer my husband when he says, “Want to have sex?”
Like this: “With you?!”
Maybe I could put my husband on the trading block. I could get some young prospects, cash and a lay to be named later.
Wait. That was a Freudian slip—just like the one my husband had the night my son was conceived.
Maybe the problem is Ruben Amaro, Jr. thinks I need some upgrades. Just like the makers of Viagra who think there’s something I need enhanced.
Man, were they wrong. Like I want someone who doesn’t interest me to want more of what doesn’t interest me about him. Now, if they really wanted to spice up a relationship they’d invent a pill that makes something glow in the dark.
And just like a Glowstick you’d have to whack it to make it work.
Or they could dress my husband’s tool to look like something that excites me—like shoes. Have you seen how they design women’s heels to look like a duck or a tux? What if they made a johnson that looked like a shoe?
Now that’s what I’d like to see for a Ladies Day giveaway at Citizens Bank Park.
Unrelated: Is it still called porn if no one watches?
Wait, I got that messed up with the tree falling in the forest thing. Too many phallic symbols in this blog.
What if they had sponsorships for husbands? Like Red Bull’s support of wakeboarding. Only my husband’s sponsor would be Frosted Mini Wheats. Or since that industrial accident, we could say Frosted Mini Wheat.
Maybe I should just suck it up and get my mind right about these trades. Then I could put it back where it belongs: in the gutter. What’s wrong with me? I haven’t even stalked these new arrivals and I’m acting like they’re all virgins.
Wait. That’s not such a bad thing. Let me try again. … I’m acting like they’re all… Wow, they’re men! What more could I possibly want?
I know: previews. I want a trailer of each new player. Just a simple YouTube video. I’d even direct. Imagine scantily clad ballplayers prancing around in cute heels. Two of my favorite things in one place!
I have a better idea: I could make a “Call Me Maybe” video for the newbies:
Here I am
I’ll love you baby
Those other guys
They call me crazy.

Don’t you listen
They’re just lazy
Don’t call the cops
Just say,” Maybe.”
My fear is that the exceedingly poor team performance has overshadowed the possible career years of Carlos Ruiz and Juan Pierre. What scares me most is Carlos is in a contract year and nothing is being leaked.
Well, when I sneeze it’s a different story.
Juan Pierre is the guy who just can’t find a permanent home. He’d be a beloved everyday contributor to any team if someone would just have a career ending injury.
Or get traded to a team that’s a contender. Face it, both Victorino and Pence went on to greener pastures. Maybe it’s Pierre’s time to shine.
He could finally have a Viagra moment.
Hey, is that product placement?
My husband says, “No, that’s what I did on your honeymoon.”
Suddenly everyone’s a comedian.
See you at the ballpark.

Check out my new website or stalk me on Twitter.

May 9, 2012

This Definitely Won't Get Me Back on Bleacher Report

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 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 son that end with, “Mom, not everyone loves the Phillies THAT way.”

It’s why I clear my browsing history before the sitter comes.

It’s why is not an acceptable reference for my kid’s term paper.

It’s why the guys at Bleacher Report kicked me off even though I used “titties” perfectly in context. 

I feel so violated. 

Actually, I’m lying. It was the first time I got to use “pussies” in a piece of business correspondence.

My husband says that’s not politically correct.

Yeah, but it’s anatomically correct.

Where were we? Oh yeah, the latent lineup. The bottom line is, we don’t like this. As fans, we want certainty; we hate curveballs.

We want every player to be a hard hitter, a wicked base runner, a blinding hurler, a spry fielder and a good kisser. But only at positions one through nine.

My husband says there’s something wrong with the above paragraph. Let me review.

Oh, yeah, I forgot position sixty-nine.

My apologies.

We want big contracts to protect against injuries, terrorists and the common cold. We paid $15 to park, dammit! We want real Cheesewiz on our steaks and wins—huge freaking triumphs!

But then Ryan Howard’s blown Achilles haunts us like a Shakespearian theme and the cartilage in Chase Utley’s knee is still AWOL. That leaves us with a curious case of how to do something with nothing.

Wow, do I know how that feels. Just last week I went to get my hair trimmed and ended up sheared.

And you thought that would be a boob joke.

Actually it is. The stylist cut my hair proportional to my chest.

Obviously he thinks I’m a minimalist.

Actually I am. For instance, take my husband.


I’m sorry. That was probably inappropriate. Or was that politically incorrect? Wait, my husband says he’ll explain: “It’s inappropriate to tell someone to take your husband. It’s politically incorrect to tell someone to take your husband because he has a limp dick.”

I remember now. He prefers, “Viagra-dependent.”

Like the blind man said while pissing into the wind: “It all comes back to me now.”

The question remains: Is it politically incorrect to refer to the Phillies as losers? 

How about we say we have a winning deficiency, losing becomes us, or the Phil’s lack of winning smolders like a Pennsylvania coal mine. It’s not that the game goes badly, it just ends too soon. We’re win-challenged, victory-impaired or, my favorite, loss-happy.

Makes us sound retarded.

Was that politically incorrect? I hope so. Somebody please violate me!

Shane Victorino started the season with a cameo on Hawaii Five-O

Like that segue?

He played a hot, young executive attending a balmy island retreat with breathtaking scenery and horny co-workers. He was also fully clothed. 

Note to the producers: That’s not masturbation material.

Then to rub it in my face, Shane appeared with his co-star, Daniel Dae Kim (that’s Hawaiian for “Daniel the Schlong”) while he threw out the first pitch on Monday.

(If you need help, click here: DaeSchlong.)

They were both fully clothed.

When’s the last time you heard a real woman say, “I wish he’d put his shirt on, he has such a great personality.”

“Look at the size of his hands—that’s an indication of intelligence.”

“I knew the bulge in his pants meant he was happy to see me but I just wanted to snuggle.”

“He likes paint-by-numbers?! That’s such a turn-on.”

“Those jeans are way too tight on his ass. He must struggle with self-esteem.”

“Wow, I wish he’d kiss that guy.”

Get my point?

Sign of the apocalypse: Jamie Moyer is second in the Rockies’ rotation.

You know he had Tommy John surgery. He set the record as the oldest active MLB player to do that too.

Yes, that's an innuendo.

I heard he got a tendon from a cadaver. Supposedly it was younger than one from his own body.

I won’t tell you what else he had transplanted from a cadaver. Supposedly, objects on the dead are larger than they appear. 

Now that’s what I call an organ donor.

Can you tell I have insomnia? 

My friend Dave, the only Cubs fan in existence, sent me a message after he beat the Phillies: “In 10,000 words or less can you describe how the Cubs beat Phillies’ pitching? Please use words like ‘shitty,’ ‘wind,’ ‘sand-in-my-eye,’ and ‘hooker.’”

I responded with poise and integrity: “Suck it, Dave.”

That’s because I’m a seasoned journalist.

My husband says, “Yeah, IN season journalist.”

Did you know they have a mold of Roy Halladay’s hand and forearm after he pitched the perfect game?

Wow, I just thought of a great dildo idea.

No, those are not congruent thoughts.

They’re consensual ones.

Phil-itically correct ones.

For some reason, a Canadian pharmacy still insists I need Viagra. My husband says, “I don’t need your head to get any harder than it is.”

Does anyone know what happens when your dog eats a 90-day supply of Cialis? My husband says, “Yeah—you call in under an alias for another.”

I gotta get some sleep.

See you at the ballpark.