It’s not the ‘church’ of baseball. It’s a jock-infested, red-hot brothel of balls and bats – that’s what it is. Let me explain why I think that. I’m a babe. You heard me right. A babe. I’m also a chick, broad, dame, doll, skirt, or Betty, but please don’t use any of those terms while addressing me unless you’re looking directly at my boobs. Yes, boobs – or hooters (just because it’s catchier), but definitely not breasts - those belong to women of integrity. All babes on the other hand, sell their souls for something, but real babes sell their souls for baseball.
And real babes need baseball boys like men need their toys. And I think I speak for baseball babes everywhere when I say tragedy struck yesterday. Thursday, April 23rd we were denied our fix; our dreams were sent packing before we even made it to the sixth. I know what all the other baseball babes are thinking, “Say it ain’t so… no… say it ain’t so.”
But, aw-shucks, I have to get this off my chest. Here goes: in the last half of that game, world caliber Phils dames died a slow, painful death: a death of enthusiasm. The question is what caused it?
One guy put it bluntly: Hamels got hit in the pussy by a ball.
I represent that comment.
It happened in the fourth. We were flying high and my sub-500 clock was ticking. Hollywood was striking out batters with a simple eighty-nine mile an hour fastball and a change-up, and my face was flushed. Then ‘aw’ struck - his name was Prince Fielder. After his hit impacted our ace, all I heard was, “Awwwwww.” Then Hamels walked off the field dragging with him my hope, my enthusiasm, and my fix. It’s an atrocity to deprive baseball babes our glimpse of Cole Hamels so early in the game. Why do you think we watch baseball anyway? Now we’ll have to wait five more games. It’s just not fair. Hamels can’t pitch, the Phils can’t win, and I can’t get my eye candy.
And for real babes everywhere, that’s just plain aw-ful. Get well soon, Cole.
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