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’m a poacher. I have lots of chocolate and I’m not afraid to pour it on everything. So if you like what you read, spread the word. Copy and paste me like a Scarlett Johansson nudie or forward me to your friends.
They’ll find me much less distasteful than an STD.
But just as hard to shake.
Let's get started. Like my boyfriend used to say when he pulled over on a dirt road, “Look out, speed hump ahead.”
The Phillies lead major league baseball in wins, they didn’t lose a series until mid-May, and they’ve been sweeping through the season like the broom of the National League.
That’s more cleaning than I did all year. My idea of housekeeping is a flash fire. Unfortunately Clorox doesn’t make a product that can clean my mind.
My husband says I should try OxyClean. It’s effective on certain types of morons.
Back to baseball. I know fans were fretting some decisions made by upper management, like the one to bolster the pitching rotation but neglect replacing Jayson Werth with a big bat. But I had only one problem: how I’d survive without him.
Outside of the fact that he has no idea who I am, we’re very close.
I’ve wanted to blog about my despair at losing the bearded one for months but every time I thought about it, I’d drool on my keyboard.
I'm like Pavlov's bitch.
Rest assured, two things are mutually exclusive: dreaming of Jayson Werth and keeping my panties on.
Don’t look at me that way. Why do you think women watch baseball anyway? Because unicorns wear cute shoes? We want to see men do amazing things. And I’m not talking about putting the toilet seat down.
On May 4th I prepared religiously for the appearance of Jayson in Philly for the first time in a Nats uniform. I colored my roots before the game because if there’s one thing Jayson likes, it’s not me.
Last year he was responsible for 11% of the Phillies’ RBIs but a far greater percentage of my sick thoughts.
From his stats it doesn’t appear as though he’s a major National's offensive contributor. Yet. But he’s got six more years.
By that time my eyes will be so bad my husband will resemble someone I want to have sex with.
I think I’m aging into a shar pei.
Let’s face it, some things aren’t figured in Jayson’s numbers: like a cool slide for a high fly, stealing home, or a 9-2 double play. They count OBP’s, putouts, and sacrifice flies, but there’s not yet a stat for ‘stud.’
Now that he’s gone, I’ve given up hope for a Jayson Werth thong giveaway at Citizens Bank Park. So I fashioned my own out of paper and streamers. I’m upset because my husband said I can’t wear it on my head.
I told him it’s origami. He’s not buying it.
How will anyone ever know what’s dear to my heart if I wear it on my ass?
I wonder if swear words on the internet are pixilated like they are on The Late, Late Show?
I wonder if these could be called ‘swear thoughts.’
My husband says in any case, it’s inappropriate to wear my panties on my head.
That’s his job.
Did you know the cap Wilson Valdez wore when he posted the first win of his career in the 19th inning save against the Reds will now be displayed in the baseball Hall of Fame?
Now that’s something I would wear on my head.
His ass I mean.
I wish Jose Contreras would come back. I like his nickname. Charlie calls him ‘big truck’ because he drives one. If that’s the case, for the first time in my life, I could be called ‘smart.’
My husband says, “Remember, you’re just leasing.”
You just got that joke.
Can you imagine if you could lease a brain? Blondes would immediately trade it for bigger boobs, white guys would swap for a black man’s penis, and Texas—no matter what they got—would claim theirs was bigger.
Oh my God I just figured out why Rick Perry doesn’t like Barack Obama.
Where were we?
Jayson. Just when I was sure the sexy right fielder on my Phantasy Baseball team would forever remain faceless, they signed pesky Hunter Pence. After the trade was confirmed I had one thought: Ruben Amaro, Jr. must have gotten the memo from Tracy Morgan that I needed more masturbation material.
Pence has provided so much protection for Ryan Howard I heard they’re naming a salve after him.
I’m still hurt that Brett Favre never sent me a picture of his privates. How do I get on that distribution list?
Just once I wish a major league player would choose Anthony Weiner as his mentor.
And in case Michael Stutes was taking a poll, ‘no’ he should never cut his hair. He should let it grow until they call him Michael Godiva.
On that note, I think they should stop making wax sculptures of people and mold them out of chocolate. They should start with the 2008 World Series champs.
Unlike a milk chocolate bunny, I wouldn’t start with the ears.
There. Hopefully we’ve covered the four food groups: chocolate, sex, Phillies, and Pence. I hope I’ve earned my much maligned ousting from the most trusted source in poorly reported sports. And I hope to see you again.
From the ballpark...
And thanks for reading.