Wow. Thank you… thank you. Thank you so much, ladies and gentlemen. Have I got some dick jokes for you! But first, let’s have a glance at this cavalcade of losers we’ve assembled. Gosh, I can’t believe every single one of you wasn’t too busy for this!
Lenny Dykstra’s here tonight! Actually, folks, he’s here every night. He lives under the dais. The janitor let him set up a sleeping bag and hot plate in exchange for stock picks and blowjobs. Makes sense. At least the blowjobs won’t disappoint you.
Chris Wheeler, everybody. Chris, do you ever get tired of people saying Harry Kalas STILL has more charisma than you? Chris wrote a book recently, but it wasn’t very well received. In fact, Dyslexia Weekly called it a “pile of sith.”
Larry Bowa’s with us. I don’t want to say Larry rubs players the wrong way, but Cory Lidle was flying his plane around Manhattan when he heard Larry was coming back to the Yankees. [Audience groans] What do you mean, “too soon?” Hey, if Alec Baldwin can joke about it now, I sure as fuck can!
Alright; enough about these fat old bastards. Tonight, we are here to honor Pat “The Bat” Burrell — our “man of the hour,” as he is referred to by prostitutes worldwide.
Here’s a little-known fact about Pat: Whenever a woman between the ages of 18 and 40 goes missing, the police have bloodhounds sniff his finger to help them pick up the scent. Don’t laugh; it fucking WORKS.
I don’t want to say that Pat is sexually overactive, but his cock makes its own condoms. This guy has busted more nuts than a squirrel with an eating disorder.
In college, Pat’s coaches thought he’d become a more focused outfielder if they drew vaginas on the baseballs. The plan backfired because he kept trying to catch them with his tongue.
Pat, are you still married? Really? That’s great! Do you remember what she looks like? Can you pick her out of the crowd? I’ll give you a hint: She’s the one pressing “Lawyer” on her cell phone speed-dial. Ha-ha, oh man, you are taking care of yourself to-NIGHT.
In all seriousness, Pat, you’re a good guy and we’re glad you helped this team win its second world championship. And if the only thing people could find to make fun of me was that I fucked a lot of women, I’d take it in stride, too. You bastard. Now I’d like to wrap up my remarks with one last joke…
[Picks a female member of the audience] Ma’am, I’ll need your help with this one. Here we go…
[Woman in the audience]: “Who’s there?”
”Pat Burrell’s cock.”
[Woman]: “Pat Burrell’s cock who?”
”Don’t play dumb, lady, I know you’ve seen it.” Thank you, and good night!
Pitchers and catchers report today. Those words fill the heart of every baseball fan with thoughts of spring and great anticipation for a new season of hope just around the corner. For Yours Truly — the B-Man himself — I am psyched beyond words. More so that I’ve been in years, as a matter of fact. And I’m here to tell you why.
Although my uniform may look different, the heart of a competitor still beats beneath its logo, and the batting-practice arm of a warrior fills the right sleeve. Banish me to Houston, will you, Mr. Amaro? Fine. Ed Wade and I have a message, and you and those other fools back in Philly better listen up: Today is the day I plot my revenge on the team that made me a champion.
While the Phillies were shooting their wad winning division titles and a World Championship, the Astros (aka, my NEW favorite team) were patiently waiting their turn, not wishing to draw attention to their plan of dominating the National League in 2010 and beyond. What plan, you ask? Why, nothing less devious than pretending to appear to other teams as a mediocre franchise, not wishing to reveal their true potential by cleverly finishing fifth in a six-team division. It’s a classic Wadian tactic, and you guys fell for it! Suckers.
Now it’s time for revenge, and you better believe that, much like my awesome chin beard, the list is growing every day. Here’s just a brief sample of those who should get ready to tremble in their shoes…
1. Charlie Manuel. How dare you pull me from a game just as I was hitting my stride? I do my best work when the bases are loaded and I’ve surrendered three home runs in five innings! “Manager?” Pfft. More like micro-manager.
2. Ruben Amaro, Jr. Bad mistake cutting me loose, amigo. I’m the kind of pitcher franchises are built around, and you’re about to learn that fact the hard way when I step on the mound against that squad of losers you’ve chosen to keep. Watch as I lull your precious Ryan Howard into a state of complacency by allowing him to hit home runs in his first three at-bats! That’s when the Brettster shifts into “lock-down mode,” and when that happens there is nowhere to hide, my friend.
3. Cole Hamels? I’m gunning for you. Now who’s going to hold your hand and dry those precious little lady-tears when the game isn’t going your way? I can’t believe I had to lie to those press weasels and tell them we weren’t fighting during the World Series because you gave up on your teammates. Better hope you don’t face me this year, because I have a gift-wrapped inside fastball with your dainty little name on it.
4. Jose Manero, assistant locker room attendant. You know what you did.
POINT – Brett Myers: Cole Hamels and I Are Not Fighting With Each Other
Hi, folks. I’d like to thank the fine men and whatever stage of pre-op tranny Chamomiles Davis is in at the moment for giving me this opportunity to clear up a rather unfortunate misunderstanding, one which has created this unwelcome sub-plot to what has otherwise been an outstanding postseason.
Certain reports have indicated that I confronted my teammate (and good friend) Cole Hamels after last night’s victory over the Yankees. Hamels’ comments after our loss in Game Three were misconstrued by the press to imply that Cole was “quitting” on the team, whether mentally, physically, or both. Nothing could be further from the truth.
When I spoke to Cole as he was leaving the clubhouse last night, I made a remark that could have been interpreted as referencing his post-game remarks. I did not say that Cole had quit on his teammates, although I phrased my question in a way that certainly could have invited that interpretation. I’ve since expressed regret for my poorly-chosen words.
Rest assured, however, that both my remarks and those offered by Cole were both taken far out of context, and our friendship is as solid as his commitment to helping our ball club win its second straight World Championship. Thank you for your time and, as always, your support!
First, let me say that I hope your respective teams’ off-seasons are going well. By now, Chipper Jones has probably bagged his fourth or fifth ten-point buck, and Jason Varitek is putting the finishing touches on his backswing. Sounds nice and relaxing, doesn’t it, and why not? Those fellas worked hard. They’re not sitting around feeling miserable about what might have been, so why should you?
Now, I’ve seen a few things here and there while perusing the ol’ blogosphere lately that have me a bit concerned. It seems that many of you who happen to be fans of teams like the Red Sox and the Mets have decided to root for the Phillies to beat the Yankees in this World Series. In your collective wisdom, you and others like you have reached the conclusion that because they are considered the lesser of two evils, the Phillies are worthy of your support.
Speaking as a Phillies fan, I would just like to say this in response: Take that support and cram it far, far up into your ass. We don’t want you rooting for our team. Fuck off. Really.
I love watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, one of the few comedies left on television that’s worth following on a regular basis. Part of the show’s appeal to me is that its story is set, obviously, in Philadelphia. The show’s co-creator, Rob McElhenney (who also plays “Mac”) is a born-and-bred Philadelphian, so his knowledge of the city helps convey an extra layer of authenticity, one not always evident in shows purportedly set in non-fictional American cities.
As those of you who watch Sunny can tell, many of the outdoor scenes are shot on location in Philly itself. It’s always a fun diversion during an episode to pick out local buildings in the background and watch the characters interacting within the landmarks we all know and love (like when the gang visits the Italian Market to barter with the “gypsies” who operate the various kiosks).
However, there are times when the show’s writers are willing to sacrifice accuracy for the sake of the story, and there is no reason to begrudge them that. But when they offer a plot element that is so utterly and indisputably wrong, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Thus, my reaction to watching last night’s episode “The World Series Defense.”
The episode itself was pretty god-damned hilarious (my favorite scene was when Dee read Mac’s “love letter” to Chase Utley), but a couple of historical inaccuracies, especially for an episode set barely one year in the past and supposedly based on actual events, were impossible to overlook (SPOILERS AHEAD)…
So, did Darren Daulton really pick Raul Ibanez (0-3) as his “Player of the Game” Monday night? Was he paying attention to the game? Did he know where he was? Thanks to an unscrupulous Comcast intern with access to Ricky Bottalico’s cell phone, we may have an idea of what was preoccupying the eccentric former Phillies backstop…
[The Fightins’ official prognosticating robot, named CHAMBOT-3000 in honor of its creator, has made several recent pronouncements relating to the 2009 playoffs. The following predictions are transcribed directly from interface screen text generated by "C-3K" (as it is affectionately known to our staff).]
I AM CHAMBOT-3000, THE ALL-KNOWING, ALL-SEEING GAME-PREDICTING ROBOT. FEAR MY KNOWLEDGE.
THE STREET LOUIS CARDINALS [Ed. Note: Sorry; CHAMBOT-3000 is still struggling with abbreviations.] WILL EMERGE VICTORIOUS IN THE SECOND GAME OF THEIR DIVISION SERIES AGAINST THE LOS ANGELES DODGERS. IN THE SIXTH INNING, PITCHER WAINWRIGHT WILL THROW A PITCH WITH SUCH VELOCITY THAT THE BASEBALL WILL CONVERT FROM MATTER TO ENERGY BEFORE CROSSING HOME PLATE. THE ENSUING RELEASE OF POWER WHICH RESULTS FROM THIS CONVERSION WILL DESTROY CHAVEZ RAVINE AND LEAVE MOST OF LOS ANGELES COUNTY A SMOKING CRATER. SURVIVORS WILL STILL BE ADVISED TO AVOID TAKING THE 405 HOME FROM THE GAME.
IN THE SECOND GAME OF THE DIVISION SERIES BETWEEN PHILADELPHIA AND COLORADO, PITCHER COLE HAMELS WILL RETURN TO LAST YEAR’S FORM AND PITCH A DOUBLE-DIGIT STRIKEOUT COMPLETE GAME WHICH WILL END WITH THE PHILLIES VICTORIOUS. HE IS SO PRETTY. I AM FILLED WITH CONFLICTING EMOTIONS. WHY, WHY DID MY CREATOR PROGRAM ME TO LOVE AS IF I’VE NEVER BEEN HURT, AND DANCE AS IF NOBODY IS WATCHING?
IN THE FIRST GAME OF THEIR DIVISION SERIES, THE LOS ANGELES ANGELS OF ANAHEIM (ERROR: DOES NOT COMPUTE) WILL DEFEAT THE BOSTON RED SOX, SHORTLY AFTER PAYING TRIBUTE TO THE VICTIMS OF A SEEMINGLY-RANDOM NUCLEAR EXPLOSION NEAR CHAVEZ RAVINE ONE HOUR BEFORE GAME TIME.
TOMORROW, THE NEW YORK YANKEES WILL LOSE TO THE UPSTART MINNESOTA TWINS IN GAME TWO OF THEIR DIVISION SERIES. YANKEES PITCHER AJ BURNETT ONCE SPILLED A GLASS OF PATRON ON CHAMBOT-3000 AT A PARTY, CAUSING MY CIRCUITS TO SMELL LIKE BURNT RAISINS FOR THREE DAYS. AJ BURNETT, YOUR FATE HAS BEEN SEALED.
ALL PREDICTIONS ARE 100 PERCENT CORRECT, BARRING QUANTUM FLUCTUATIONS OR BETTER PITCHING BY THE OTHER TEAM. YOU WANT ODDS, GO FIND A DAMN BOOKIE.
THIS IS CHAMBOT-3000, ENDING TRANSMISSION.
[Dr. Alison Allswell is an adjunct professor of Clinical Psychology at Strayer University. She specializes in anxiety resolution and stress relief.]
Greetings, fellow participants in this grand human experiment! The good and stable minds who run this web site have asked me to offer a few words of comfort and encouragement for those of you worried about your baseball club’s current situation.
If you are among those troubled by recent developments, I say only this: Remain calm. Your stressful response to any setbacks of this nature will only hasten physical ailment and emotional trauma.
Yes, pitcher Cole Hamels may have surrendered 6 runs last night against Houston, but let us focus on things that matter most to us: family, good friends, an appreciation of the world around us.
(I mean, come on — how the fuck do you go five innings and… no, no, this too must pass. Deep breaths, Alison. Deep breaths. Remember your mantra.)
Too often in our modern society we tend to invest a disproportionate amount of emotional energy in what are merely diversions along the path of a meaningful existence.
(And where for Christ’s sake were the fucking BATS last night? Jesus! OK, OK… maintain your balance. The cosmos is a large and powerful place, and renders insignificant the fact that THEY WENT OH-FOR-FUCKING-TWO-THOUSAND-AND-SIXTY-FIVE WITH RUNNERS IN SCORING POSITION! Alright now. Be cool, baby.)
There are six games left to play, and the Phillies need only win three of them to reclaim the division title. Is that so daunting a task? Think about it, my friends.
(Meanwhile, what’s that crawling up our collective ass? Oh, yeah, IT’S THE ATLANTA FUCKING BRAVES. Goddammit. I need a joint.)
That which is beyond our control should not occupy our concerns. Fate will unfold as it must. Therefore, let us focus our minds on fulfilling those objectives which are within our respective ability to control.
(You hear that, you slumping sons of bitches? Fucking FOCUS!)
May your days be filled with peace and tranquility.
(WIN THE GODDAMNED DIVISION ALREADY, YOU JACKHOLES! Where’s my cigarette lighter?)
Seven games to go before the 2009 regular season (brought to you by Rolaids, Xanax and Jack Daniels) reaches its conclusion. The title defense continues for our heroes in red pinstripes, but since these are the Phillies we’re talking about, nothing is ever frickin’ easy.
As with the Dodgers in ’08, the Phillies have a chance to return the favor to Houston with a four-game sweep at home. This, if accomplished, would put a nice, pretty bow on the division title, and keep hope for the best overall league record alive. (I think… I’m too lazy to do the math. Somebody bring me a hyperactive idiot savant, stat!)
In the meantime, let’s buckle up, take a few deep breaths, and cheer on the teams standing in Atlanta’s way. So, yeah — go… NATIONALS?
Oh, my God. Alright, remember — deep breaths, clean thoughts, and enjoy this musical tribute to That Which Remains To Be Achieved:
(Note: The first 10 seconds of the video is missing sound, but the song itself is all there.)
Rest assured, all of that is completely true. But I’ve been in tougher situations than this before. Like the time I tried to start my own magazine and ended up not paying any of my staff, or our distributors, or the people who owned the property our offices were located in. Then my wife left me and the bank foreclosed on my house. Man, that was a sticky situation.
…Wait, that’s happening to me right now. Fuck. I need a cigarette.
[Finds half-extinguished butt on the pavement and takes a long, slow drag.]
Ugh! MENTHOL?!? Fuckin’ moolies. Sorry about that, sorry… I promised my lawyer I’d stop using racial epithets and calling people “faggot” and farting in their faces when they’d ask about the money I owed them. Fuckin’ vultures, dude, every single one of ‘em.
But it’s cool — this man has a plan. And when all is said and done, I’ll be back on top, getting rimjobs from Cramer and dispensing can’t-miss stock picks to you, the unwashed asses.
Here’s the plan: I’m selling my shit. And you’re buying it, motherfuckers.
Want a 1986 World Series ring? Bam. It’s yours. How about a game-worn Dwight Gooden jersey? Come and get it. You can still see the nosebleed stains on the front! That man did a lot of coke.
I can even get you those red-striped Zubaz pants Daulton used to wear all the time back in ’93. Hey, remember Daulton? What a wackjob, right? Thinks the world is ending in 2012 because of some Maya Angelou calendar. I don’t think I need to see that. Can you imagine what she must look like in a bikini? Christ — see you in twelve months, boner!
I won’t lie when I say I’ll miss a lot of this shit. Some of it brings back a lot of great memories, and great memories are more precious than gold. But you know what’s even more precious than that? Not sleeping in my fuckin’ car, dude.
Let the bidding begin!
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