The Fightins'
Striped: The 2010 Phillies, The Serial II
Posted by at 11:00 am ET 27 Comments

In the last episode of “Striped,” a power struggle began between manager Charlie Manuel and shortstop Jimmy Rollins. And when did Charlie acquire an British accent? Meanwhile, Shane Victorino showed some shady colors while talking to Ben Francisco. And Ross Gload got upset about his troubled past. Confused? You won’t be after this episode of “Striped.”

Note: The following text is a satirical and fictional story based on the true outcomes of the regular season happenings of the 2010 Philadelphia Phillies. The text is to be considered as strictly entertainment.

Chapter One / Part One / Scene Two
May 19, 2010

The passionate fans in red bowed their heads in dissatisfaction once again, for the hometown nine lost another game. Despite a valiant effort from Japanese wunderkind Kylo Ken, the offense couldn’t muster an attack. This time, they couldn’t solve Tom Gorzelanny.

“A real comayadahocamorala,” says JC Romero, staring intently ahead with his hands clasped together. His brow sweaty, his eyes a sharp brown. “Ay fagayadaratolegama!”

“JC, my son, please,” says the priest at the altar, his call drenched in echo. Romero is alone in this great hall of a cathedral, highest of ceilings and brightest of walls. The sun bleeds into the pews, spotting Romero in a sea of gold. It’s a scene out of a mob movie; in a way, Romero is living this movie every day.

“As you know, my son,” says the priest, wiping a chalice, “I am most proud of your progress. You’re lucky to have moved clean from that lifestyle.”

“Not clean yet,” Romero whispers to himself, before saying a silent prayer and making his way out of the cathedral. Waiting for him is left-handed brother Antonio Bastardo, who gives him a loose man hug. Bastardo wears a long black coat and a large black hat and takes a long drag of a cigar. He resembles “Hawk” from “Spenser For Hire.”

“You ready, papi?” Bastardo asks.

Bastardo drives as the two sit in a powder blue low rider, hydraulics pumping to something from the Big Punisher canon. Could also be Paul Anka. Bastardo chews on the cigar as he lazily turns the wheel. Soon, they come to a stoplight by Citizens Bank Park when, to their side, pulls up another car: a filthy green minivan – maybe an Aerostar. With Cuban music blaring. The window rolls down.

“Que pasa, chicken shits!”

It’s Danys Baez and Jose Contreras. Baez is driving, tongue wagging. A noise is emanating from the passenger seat.

“Is Jose snoring?” Romero asks.

“Yeah, but he’s wide awake,” Baez responds. Contreras is, actually, wide awake, but hooked into a defibrillator. “So let’s race, bitches!”

They revv up their cars.

An hour later, everybody is in the locker room. Baez and Contreras are celebrating another victory – Baez by welcoming hookers into the clubhouse, Contreras by smiling while lying on a hospital bed arranged for him in the corner. Romero is icing down his arm, the victim of a powerful bruise.

“Why you gotta crash the car again?” Romero asks Bastardo.

“I’m sorry man!” he responds. “I’m still a rookie at this.”

With a quiet stride and wearing his garish robe, manager Charlie Manuel stops at Romero.

“I see that is a wicked bruise you have there,” Manuel says, bringing his robe to his face to cover his mouth. “Well tisk, tisk, young man, may you not enter the game today. And your chum Antonio there, if I call you in, may it be in an opportunity where you will ultimately fail. My good man Danys, how do you feel today?”

Baez is half naked, the hookers enjoying his svelte frame. “I feel great, skip!”

“Good then. You’re in if we need you. Quite.” Manuel stalks away, before noting: “Hello ladies.”

Before the day’s game against the Cubs, Manuel wrangles the players in a large circle in the middle of the clubhouse. Victorino hears his phone vibrating and nervously wiggles about, wanting to answer. Standing next to him is Ryan Howard, tapping his veins. Manuel starts a chant, and all the men except Jimmy Rollins chant along. Rollins, instead, mumbles “Red Bull” in the midst of the chant. Manuel sees this.

“Now then, Young James, what is the meaning of this charade?”

“What? What? I ain’t do nothin’.”

Manuel snarls, then continues the chant. Rollins mumbles “Red Bull” again.

“See, see, I heard that one,” Manuel says.

“What? What one?”

“If I recall correctly,” stammers Manuel, “I believe you said ‘Red Bull’.”

Alarms sound. The doors blast open and Rollins’ lackeys, clad in those black Red Bull polo shirts, break into the room with the Phillie Phanatic hot on their tails.

“Did someone say ‘Red Bull’?” they yell.

As they break in and dance like monkeys about the clubhouse, Dan Baker shouts, “Here come the Red Bulls!” The Phanatic cocks his giant hot dog shooter and blows Red Bulls onto the unsuspecting players. One hits Brad Lidge in the arm.

“Damn! Another Cortisone shot!”

Ryan Howard stalks away and quickly injects himself with a needle. Most of the players are confused, ducking the flurry of highly charged aluminum. Jamie Moyer zips up into a plastic bubble he created for himself. Jayson Werth catches a Red Bull without looking and stores it in his beard.

“Now then, what in Queen Elizabeth’s fluffy bosom is going on here?” screams Manuel.

“Trust me, brah! Trust me!” responds Rollins. He throws down a Red Bull. “GET THAT GET THAT!”

The commotion dies soon and the men dress for the afternoon game. Later that day, in the sixth inning, Rollins cranks a three-run home run, turning the game in favor of the Phillies. Angered by Rollins’ cool victory of sugary refreshment, Manuel leaves Joe Blanton into the game too long and then brings in Bastardo, just as he said he would. Bastardo promptly gives up the tying run and puts the game in jeopardy until an eighth-inning rush gives the Phillies the victory.

At the end of the day, Rollins celebrates by showering himself with a Red Bull. Silently in his office, adorned with pictures of Queen Elizabeth and maps of Olde England, Manuel watches over this grotesque display while stroking a stuffed kitty and sipping peppermint tea.

“If there’s one thing that makes my corneas itch,” Manuel ponders, “it’s watching another man usurp my authority.” He glances over the clubhouse and spots the Phanatic’s hot dog gun, left behind before the game. “Quite the situation here. A hot dog gun. … We’ll see who has the last delicious laugh. Ahahahaha!



27 Responses to “Striped: The 2010 Phillies, The Serial II”

  1. what the hell am i reading here? says:

    if this bullshit continues, i’m going to stage an ol fashioned walk out

  2. 85 says:

    Oh for fuck’s sake… And did you just have Big Brown shooting up steroids? What in the blue hell is that about?

  3. PolancosHeadIsHuge says:

    fuck this

  4. Adam Eaton says:

    Gay… Part 2.

  5. D. Whitmore says:

    damnit. make this stop

  6. Chloe says:

    Did not read.

  7. Rhymeface says:

    Did the Turks hack the site again?

  8. Jdashdog says:

    You guys wouldn’t know great writing if it bit you on the nuts. Show Mr. Riverside some respect.

  9. Chris says:

    If anything these posts should continue so I can read all your comments.

  10. Joe Hates Tits says:

    it makes me sad that this story is at the top of the page when i check in with every five minutes

    it was torture yesterday but finally the pat burrell post came, followed by the youkilis thread… i thought the nightmare was over.

    then this shit.

    please meech, post something new.

  11. Thomas Perez's Perezidents says:

    …Anyway, you guys think Orlando has a chance?

  12. kurt says:

    Sometimes I wish Charles Barkley commented on this site.

  13. Thomas Perez's Perezidents says:

    Riverside- you should do a parody of the geico cavemen where you’re cancelled after two episodes.

  14. Rick James says:

    I wish I had more hands, so I could give those titties 4 THUMBS DOWN

  15. Thomas Perez's Perezidents says:

    @Jdashdog- I didn’t read this, and I’m not going to. I am critical of it because it doesn’t belong here. I don’t come to this site for nippleslips, not prose. And to hate Eric.

  16. At least Cory Lidle didn't have to read this crap says:

    Could someone let me know when this shit ends, I don’t feel like checking this site anymore…

  17. DP says:

    WTF?! Strike 2. Another one of these and I will stop refreshing the Fightins every 15 minutes while on the job. This is getting fucking ridiculous. The only entertainment this provides is reading the comments. My head hurts just looking at the big block of text. At least throw me a bone and include a steamy shower scene with Ryan Howard, his “Greg Oden”, and one of the ball girls?

  18. Gonzo says:

    If you don’t like it, go to the next post. Don’t be a dick. Or just be funny like Rick James.

  19. DP says:

    Kill the “?” at the end of my #17 so Shakespeare and Riverside don’t get their panties in a grammatical knot.

  20. Mr. Bryan says:

    This is like when Joaquin Phoenix became a rapper.

  21. The Killer Zs says:

    Not again – I’m not reading this one. I read the one yesterday and that is time from my life that I will never get back.

  22. drew says:

    I like these stories. I don’t read much fiction, but this is fiction where I already know the main and sub characters. But I do have to agree, more tits.

  23. Phils Phan says:

    What is worse?

    Option 1: Mr. Phils Phan, read the story.
    Option 2: Mr. Phils Phan, your son wants to be a male cheerleader.


  24. Dubee Dubee Du says:

    Faithful Fightens Fans lend me your ears… eyes yeah lend me your eyes. Is it nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or stand up and refuse to allow this repugnant claptrap to fuck with our heads. Somewhere in a dank basement our Meech is being held against his will. Bound and gagged by some leather clad gimp and his Soon-To-Be-Living-The-Rest-of-His-Short-Ass-Life-In-Agonizing-Pain Rapist. That can be the only explanation for this torture to continue. What can we do? Well usually these pervs are after attention, some recogonition of their miserable existance. We must not give it to them. It’s the only way to save Meech, short of getting Bruce Willis to storm the basement with some serious whoopass. So since idon’t have a line to Bruce here’s what I recommend. Ignore the motherfucker. Treat him like the sorryass trolling cocksucker he is. When he posts don’t comment. Weaken the pricks resolve to where he lets his guard down and Meech can drag his violated ass to safety. It’s our only chance to save him.

  25. Maz says:

    Geez, it’s pretty funny, not awesome, but certainly undeserving of such harsh censure. Of course, I also like to read. Actual books.

  26. I felt that Joaquin Phoenix was a fantastic actor, how ever a rapper (as he keeps saying he wants to be) don’t think so. Hope he snaps out of the reality he’s living one day and make movies again.

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