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 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 UrbanDictionary.com 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.
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.