I’d like to preface this column by saying LOOK OUT FOR THE FLAMING OIL REFINERY!!!! WE’RE ALL GOING TO FUCKING DIE!!! (according to Rob Jennings).

As a student studying to get my B.A. in psychology, I have a further understanding of it than fools like Sam Donellon have. I know who psychologists themselves truly are (take a survey of psychology majors, and you will find 2 things: 1.) People who want to be teachers and 2.) People that ARE FUCKING NUTS) and what effects it has.

That being said, Sam and the average reader create a bastard job and call it a ’sports psychologist’. Dr. Phil is a more qualified psychologist than these asshats. These guys are in the business of making you feel happy and charging you money for your own intrinsic happiness kicking in with their minimal aid. Bullshit artists.

Whereas real psychologists take no credit (except fiscally, ’cause we are all whores for cash) for continued depression or an elevation in mood, cockfaces like Dr. Joel Fish (you know, the douchebag who explains the ‘psyche’ of eccentric Philadelphia athletes? That dipshit) and Harvey Dorfman claim to help athletes, and publicly diagnose sports celebrities without ever meeting them. Completely ethical, taking all the credit like some sort of quasi-shaman and discussing private matters in public.

The latter of these dickwits, Doc Dorfman, claims his magic books on roads to happiness helps struggling athletes. And what a list of athletes that is:

His books [...] have become dog-eared textbooks for players like Moyer, who in turn has pointed players from Ibanez to the struggling young Kyle Kendrick toward Harvey’s couch.

Kyle Kendrick!?! Kyle fucking Kendrick!

Hey, Mr. Sports ‘Psychologist’,  your books on universal happiness didn’t improve double K. You know why? ‘Cause psychology and self-help books don’t help everyone! That’s why you’re a fucking psychologist. You can’t help everyone, so stop pimping your bullshit to gullible fools like Sam Donellon who write columns titled “Psychologist helps athletes, Phillies think positive even when things are going well”.

I know some of you will say “My dearest ‘Tard,  these men may not be performing well on the baseball diamond, but sports psycholgists can help them deal with everyday life and personal happiness”. Bull-fucking-shit. High caliber athletes love the attention, and thrive off the attention. They need the public to love them or to be performing well at their job for happiness. For an example of the media whoredom of the common athlete, look how well Brett Favre deals with being out of the spotlight.

And with a client list containing Chan Ho Park, Kyle Kendrick, and Jamie Moyer, that’s a 66% failure rate, Dorfman. Sports Psycholgy is not real psychology, it’s just another average job built up by hackneyed writers. Hackneyed writers looking for an interesting scoop. Hackneyed writers placing success on the wrong individuals.

Jamie Moyer is why Jamie Moyer is a successful pitcher in his 40s. Chan Ho Park and Kyle Kendrick have themselves to blame for their shitty pitching. Harvey Dorfman has no role in the Phillies success or failure.

Fuck sports psychologists. Ass after the jump:

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Answer: What are three things I’d rather do than attend a Dane Cook concert.

From Dan Gross’s column:

Saturday night, after the Phillies’ loss to the Atlanta Braves, Utley and outfielder Jayson Werth took in Dane Cook’s show from a suite at the Spectrum. Cook was the last comedian who will play the Spectrum.

I don’t know what is more disgusting, the fact that Mr. World Fucking Champions and Jayson “The Delaware Valley wants to pork my mom” Werth attended the show, or that Dane Cook will be the last “comedian” to play the spectrum.

I use the term comedian lightly. Dane Cook is not a comedian. Dane Cock is a funny guy, who’s used good looks and an overabundance of energy to create a comedian persona. Dane Cook is a comedian in the same way that Justin Timberlake is a comedic actor.

If Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony knew that Dane Cook and Justin Timberlake would have had careers in the future, they might’ve reconsidered the whole “giving little girls the opportunity to voice their opinion thing”.

Not misogyny, misanthropy.

*Kudos to meech.one for this travesty. He-who-shall-not-be-named story after the jump:

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I don’t like to call organizations classy, or people classy. As a cynical Libertine/nihilist/reprobate, I find it a reflection of one’s own arrogance by applying the term ‘classy’ to a public figure. Some people make a living by kissing losers’ asses and bitching about coffee (RESPECT THE SUN!). Hypocritical individuals and false personalities are created by morons who believe that perfection exists. ‘Classy’ is a load of horseshit.

That being said, the Phillies made an honorable decision to memorialize their legendary broadcaster. From the Daily News:

“In an anonymous wooden locker stall in the visiting clubhouse at Citi Field, a familiar blue blazer was draped on a hanger. Underneath it sat an equally familiar pair of white shoes.

The ensemble is one that Harry Kalas made famous, and the Phillies are now using them to honor the legendary broadcaster, giving the “uniform” its own stall in visiting clubhouses, and displaying it in the dugout during each home game.”

But the best part of this story is whose idea it was to hang the blazer. Which Phillie decided to spearhead this action? No questions asked you already know the answer:

“A group of players, spearheaded by centerfielder Shane Victorino, approached [Frank Coppenbarger,  Phillies' director of team travel and clubhouse services] about obtaining the blazer and shoes, Kalas’ trademark throughout his 39 years as a Phillies broadcaster”

Aloha, bitches. And if this column wasn’t classy enough already, titties after the jump:

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…former Phillies reliever Ryan “Wimpiest bitch to ever take steroids” Franklin is now the wearer of some of the shittiest facial hair on the planet.

Now Philly can be known for cheesesteaks, historical shit, Rocky, and baseball players with shit facial hair.

You make us* proud, gentlemen.

(*by us I mean me, a Delaware Valleyian and proud owner of a shitty white guy ’stache)

Every fucking year, some stupid jackass watches a dozen games and gets his dick in a knot over a team that is *cue queer, uppity  pronunciation* “defying expectations”. I remember during the 2005 season when the Expos became the Nationals, sportswriters rubbed their dicks against the couch cushions as they were pathetically leading the NL East and then realized they were still the fucking Expos, but in Nationals uniforms. Losers.

Every year, sportswriters rub their dicks in a couch cushion. And at first, it feels like a pussy. But then you realize you’re fucking a piece of furniture, and instead of a National League Pennant, you’re left with a chaffed dick.

This year, those dick sores are going to be Marlin-shaped.  The Star-Ledger’s Brian Costa’s dick is currently covered with those sores.

Two weeks into the regular season, one team stands above all others in the division, and it is the Florida Marlins, whose 11-1 record is the best in the majors.

Wow. 12 fucking games. Seven percent of the fucking season. That is the equivalent of heralding the Cincinnati Bengals after going 1-0. Similar fucking percentages (where ma Math majors at!! Droppin’ them percentages, cocksucker!).

As Clark Spencer writes in The Miami Herald, “By defeating the now-shell-shocked Washington Nationals 7-4 [Sunday], the Marlins became the first team in 11 seasons to win three consecutive games that they trailed heading into their last at-bat. The 1998 Detroit Tigers were the last to do it.”

The Tigers record in 1998: 65-97. That coveted 5th place division finish. Glorious. Go get ‘em Marlins! That 65 win season is a high thing to shoot for. Check your facts next time Clark Spencer and Brian Costa, ya stupid fucks.

*On a side note, anybody know what a bandwagon is? And why are we still talking about wagons in the 21st century? ‘Scuse me while I hop on the Phillies Intergalactic Space Crusier Powered by reason and Hydrogen Fuel Cells

Backstory courtesy of NY Daily News

*I was going to link the hilarious video, but the cocks at MLB Advanced Media took it down. Blow me, Matthew Gould.

I’m not one for sensitivity, not one for soft, poetic pieces. I don’t entirely believe in death, personally.

I was not born and raised in Philadelphia. I was not raised on Phillies baseball. Coincidentally, the first Phillies game I went to was when the Harry and Whitey bobblehead was given away versus the St. Louis Cardinals. I’ve never claimed to be a baseball lifer, and I rarely discuss it with the people around me. I don’t sport Phillies caps and never made an effort as a young lad to go to the ole ball yard with my Pa with a dirty mitt in hand.

Baseball never meant much to me as an adolescent. I wasn’t trading cards with my bros or going out in the street pretending to be Lenny Dykstra or the Krukker. Harry the K and Wheels and LA and Scott Graham meant a lot to me.

Shockingly, I was kind of a weird kid. Somewhat of a social misfit. I was one to hang out with the metal kids and the stoners, not ones that typically enjoyed baseball. Baseball, to me, was sitting alone and enjoying the way Harry Kalas described the game on my shit radio. I rarely watched the games on TV (parents were too ‘honest’ to steal cable), so for 2 hours every night, I would lay down with my headphones on listening to the sweet baritone of a man that represented my connection to baseball. Even to this day I’d rather be listening to Harold Norbert Kalas describe a Tomas Perez fly out in a meaningless game then watch Ryan Howard hit a bomb in person. The first couple of Phillies games I found myself somewhat bored and confused that they didn’t pump in the announcing through the loudspeakers.

To me, listening to Harry is better than seeing the live action. As a very stoic sports viewer, only Harry can elicit a rise of emotion out of me. Listening to Harry on a staticy radio transmitter is a better baseball experience than front row seats.

As a credit to my journalistic integrity (journalistic integrity = yelling at everyone, often in obscenity-laden rants), I have to call out one of the brahs of the Fightins on somethin’. As pointed out by commenter Leann, ‘Duk of Big League Stew recently chastised Phillies fans for booing perennial asshat Adam Eaton.

Adam Eaton is a fuck. Adam Eaton is worthless. Adam Eaton is useless. Adam Eaton makes me so mad I only type in short sentences. To misquote Slayer: “[Eaton] is hate, [Eaton] is fear, [Eaton] is war. [Eaton] is rape, [Eaton's] obscure, [Eaton's] a whore”.

From ‘Duk’s column:

And, over time, they’ve made so many cases about why it was OK to throw snowballs at Santa Claus

Stop right there. The old ’snowballs at Santa’ is the equivalent of the ‘Hitler was an atheist’ argument. It’s a fallacy that has spread over time and has little support. It’s not entirely true, it’s at best a situation taken out of context. No educated person should lower themselves to using the hackneyed attention grabbers of ESPN. But back to the real issue.

There is no defense of Eaton. He made almost no positive contribution to the team. Geoff Geory and Michael Bourn made a bigger contribution to the Phillies’ success last year. Matt Stairs, with his one moment in the NLCS, made a bigger impact than Eaton. Eaton had literally no role in the postseason success of the Phillies.

Is it right to boo him? Fuck yes. It is only wrong in the sense that all booing can be philosophically stated as wrong, but as you fair readers know, I don’t give a fuck about my fellow citizen. I don’t give a shit about my team’s players and no one truly does. I’m not a romantic, and I’m not saying that you have to adopt my beliefs, but never tell me that you care about the emotions of some random person for the 4-5 years they were a part of your major league roster.

Not to rag on you ‘Duk but Adam Eaton is a worthless piece of shit and a shame to the Phillies logo.

Check out them British funbags after the jump:

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Scooter the talking baseball, move over. Presenting “Phil the Can”:

And while you may feel unproductive because you don’t have a job and spend the night drinking yourself silly whilst blogging and finding every possible version of Alice in Chains “Junkhead”, meet Global Spectrum facilities manager Bram Reynolds:

There’s also a new commitment to recycling and the environment at Citizens Bank Park.  In men’s rooms there are new, environmentally friendly urinal blocks that won’t harm the ozone layer, says Global Spectrum facilities manager Bram Reynolds:

“It will disintegrate in the urinal.  You do not have any waste left over, so we don’t have to add that to our landfills.”

This guy’s job is to talk about urinal cakes. Suddenly it feels fine to have $24 in savings and no job. At least I ain’t sniffing other dude’s pee.

I still can’t get over “Phil the Can”. I’m totally throwing non-degradables in that shit. Fuck you, inanimate trash speaky!

The true stupidity of baseball closer coverage last year focused solely on one Francisco “K-Rod” Rodriguez. You know, that eccentric guy that is now douching it up with the Mets. While he was breaking the single season saves record, Philadelphia’s favorite proponent of shitty nu-metal was like an incoming freshman’s asshole, perfect.

And the general public was generally unimpressed with K-Rod’s record, given that the all the closers in the top 21 set their place from 1990-2008 (Dave Righetti shares the 21st spot with 46 saves in 1986). This boring, ass-clownish achievement pales in comparison to Lidge’s season.

This season, the Lidgemeister is chasing interesting history. He is third in consecutive regular season games saved, with 44. The fat Canadian guy is #1 with 84 and, ironically (ironic in this sense means “seriously?”) phormer Phillie Tom Gordon is #2 with 54.

If Lidge continues what he did last year, he could conceivably break the record in September, around the stretch drive when David Wright and Carlos Beltran’s alleged testicles retreat back up into their uteruses. There are bullshit arguments about steroids and queer notions about the sanctity of the game giving Tom Gordon the record, and meaning that Lidge would only be 11 saves away from the record-breaker (people think the Canadian fatty took steroids). But I regard those as generally stupid arguments.

Buckle your seatbelts and firmly grasp your nutsack (or oves, for the ladies out there), the Lidgemeister could be making history this year.

Gossip Girls skanking it up after the jump:

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