Charlie Manuel shuffled the lineup again. That’s good, I like adding something new to the same old routine.
Just like me, Charlie must have a drawer he goes to when things go stale.
I imagine the Phils are scraping the barrel on superstitions by now. At this point they’re probably wearing children’s panties, playing hopscotch on the way through the clubhouse, and buttering their Pop-Tarts from right to left.
You heard me. Butter on Pop-Tarts. It covers all four food groups: butter, sugar, flavor, and crust.
But honestly, it’s time to really shake things up.
This babe’s opinion of what the Phillies are missing is heart. The team has as many errors in about 60 games as they did all last season, and figures suggest that aliens abducted the real Phils in mid-May. But most importantly, I’m beginning to think the only reason they looked so good was because the competition was so bad.
It’s the same concept behind Lady Gaga selling records.
Whoa!!! That’ll stir things up. Maybe the Gaga will give me the finger, then me and Mets fans will finally have something in common.
And maybe I’ll finally get the recognition someone else deserves.
Fat chance. Last year I alleged that Charlie Manuel was on performance-enhancing drugs and all I got was a few reads. Poor Jerod Morris of Midwest Sports Fans actually had a basis for making his allegation about Raul Ibanez and he was chastised on national television.
What’s a girl got to do to earn some disrespect?
I know, I'll trade sex for ballpark seats.
My husband says that’s already been done.
Is nothing sacred?!
My brother texted me the reason the Phillies are fumbling: That’s what happens when you quit cheating.
My reply was rich in reasoning and intelligence: You're ugly.
Seriously though, what’s a manager to do? He’s in charge of grown men who play sports professionally. They know their job, they know the game, and they know they get paid millions of dollars to produce. But what if, like the guys who claim to be searching for a solution to the BP spill, Charlie’s out of options?
I don’t think setting off a nuclear bomb will stop the earth from emptying its soul into the Gulf of Mexico and I don’t think setting fire to someone’s fanny will make him hit the ball.
Hey, maybe if I sat on Jayson Werth’s lap it would set something off.
My husband says, “Yeah, the remnants of his lunch.”
He would know. In my house a wind instrument isn’t a clarinet and he calls me the human Whoopie Cushion.
And with that, I think I’ve taken a nose dive into disrespect.
Hopefully I’ve said plenty without saying anything at all. Maybe someone somewhere will appreciate my ability to say nothing of value for long periods of time and decide to give me a chance.
Wait. Isn’t that the prerequisite for public office? I can just see my campaign qualifications: ability to lose train of thought while spouting vividly incoherent sentence fragments.
Hey, it worked for (insert favorite politician here).
I would have written my preference but I don’t discriminate. I even believe bi-partisans should serve in the military.
Now I'm done. Hopefully I've taken a little heat off the home team and spiced up a day that could end in a disappointing series sweep.
I'll say goodbye the same way my husband bids farewell to my son.
Go ahead—pull my finger.
See you at the ballpark.
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