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 thing clear: I don’t follow people who Photoshop their privates or have a brother named Oscar Meyer.
Okay, maybe Anthony Weiner doesn’t have siblings. Or anyone who acts like his conscious. Actually I wish he’d avoided bad press altogether because even after all the jokes, I still have to Google the spelling of his last name.
You'd think I'd remember it's 'i' before 'e,' except after penis.
Which brings us to my point (which is a great way of saying I have no segue whatsoever).
Philadelphia is the city of brotherly love—tough love sometimes, but in every definition there’s room to play.
Like with me. I post what could only loosely be considered “articles,” written in a style that barely resembles English on a website that truly extends the family tree to regard what I write even a distant relative of sports.
The truth is Philadelphians love what they love devoutly and give anything that is remotely hate-able a chance for scorn. But they do it all passionately. Especially me—I specialize in passion.
Wait. My husband says that’s not true. Last week the judge called it stalking.
That’s only because they can’t lift fingerprints off polyester.
Hey, it’s not my job to interpret the law.
And luckily, there’s no cache on my binoculars.
Anyway, back to the Pence who would be king. Ruben Amaro Jr. has been trying to assemble another World Series squad. In 2009 they found out wins don’t arrive solely on the back of Cliff Lee and in 2010 they were shown that runs don’t accumulate with slumps. But this year they have a quiver full of pitchers and a shield for Ryan Howard that wields a right-hand bat.
They’ve witnessed the 25 millionth fan and 182 consecutive sell-outs. And they didn’t do it because Charlie Manuel wears cologne.
Actually I’m not sure what Charlie wears, but I’m sure it’s not pretty.
Like how I make my meatloaf, some things you don’t want to know.
But this you’ll appreciate: Victoria’s Secret now has Phillies gear. They put a “P” on the front of their provocative panties.
Finally I have something classy to wear on my head.
I have no idea where I was. Oh, yeah, why Hunter Pence came to Philly. The honest truth is he was suckered. Someone once said, “Build it and they will come.” I don’t think there’s a single word that describes what the Phillies have built, but if I expand the definition of a favorite, I’d call it “delicious.”
When Pence comes to the plate, I now have another wonderful backside to zoom in on from left field, the vendors can monopolize on mid-season jersey sales of a new trade victim, and best of all, he’s steroid and hormone free.
Hell, he’s cleaner than a Perdue chicken—with the legs to boot.
Can I get a "Jayson who?"
I just can’t get used to seeing Pence and not thinking, “Damn, he’s gonna hurt us bad. And he’ll look bad doing it.”
But who said bad can’t feel good?
Wait, I know this.
Whoops, if I tell you, my husband will know I wasn’t a virgin when we met.
Anyway, there are a few things Hunter should do to fit in. One, get a nickname that rhymes with boo—for obvious reasons, especially if he’s sensitive. Two, plaster only the pictures of himself he wants to see on crowd posters on Google images. And three: sport some sort of facial hair.
That last one is more for me than anything. When guys grow beards it helps distinguish me from them.
Hey, I saw an ad that read: “Dog models needed.” Think I'll stop plucking for a week and apply.
There was another one: “Lilypad Originals—Spreading the word of God through photography."
I think that's all Anthony Weiner was trying to do.
I must now bid adieu. I have to add Hunter Pence to my fantasy baseball team.
And in my version, a homer isn't what you think.
See you at the ballpark.