As the title says, this is my second annual bucket list—Phillies style. I hate the redundancy of writing a totally self-explanatory title and then reaffirming the topic in my first sentence but with those darn search engines constantly looking for articles with relevance, I’m already at a disadvantage.
When it comes to blogging about baseball, I’m the master at having nothing relevant to say.
And I’ve proved that for two whole paragraphs.
First, I should let you know that unlike most bucket lists, mine isn’t composed of death-defying acts of irrationality like white water rafting. Hell, if I wanted to be tossed about by a current I’d call my husband in on the waterbed. Besides, I don’t need to do something daring—I got married. I don’t need another adventure to end with, “What the hell was I thinking?”
Now, on my first bucket list, I gave considerable thought to the organization—I thought about bullets or numbers or an alphabetical arrangement. I even tried little Shane Victorino silhouettes but I couldn’t get them to stand still. So eventually I settled for the rant. Not only is it my favorite form of communication, it’s the least effective one.
Anyway, I’m hoping you enjoy this more than your annual pap smear or your prostate check (although I might be discriminating against single people when I say that).
Until the day I die, I pledge to boldly go where middle-aged women have all gone before—into the pants of major league players. And to the dismay of many, the thoughts in my mind will flow senselessly through my computer keypad.
Yes, I still use a pc. No, I don’t have an iPad. That’s what I do to my bra.
I give a whole new meaning to the question, “Are those really yours?”
Sorry, I got off track.
Let’s try again:
I want a bladder that doesn’t leak when I sneeze.
I want a wrinkle cream that makes me look like a Hollywood hottie but not someone Hugh Hefner would boink.
I want Philly weather to go straight from fall to spring.
I want my cat to puke in a designated area.
I want my dog to find a way to tend to his genitalia before he comes to bed.
I want my husband to find a way to do that too.
I want to prove that Shane Victorino is a descendant of the Mexican jumping bean.
I want someone to find a way to keep Justin Bieber cute and little, just like a kitten.
I want my husband to stop calling him 'Justin Beaver.'
I want a Cliff Lee blowup doll giveaway at Citizens Bank Park (anatomically correct, of course).
I want spell check to be nominated for sainthood.
I want Carlos Ruiz to catch the next perfect game.
I want my husband to stop telling people that my remorse over Jayson Werth leaving is a passing phase.
I want to outlaw pimples, menstrual cramps, puking on people at games, throwing stuff at each other and mean people.
I want a Phillies t-shirt with built in boobs. They could come in three sizes: small ball, pitcher’s mound and grand slam.
I want sex to come in different sizes too.
Wait, it already does.
I want hair styles to come in a spray can.
I want Brad Lidge to pitch a slider so nasty they call it “The Bitch.”
I want to be carded again.
I want chocolate to be declared a food group. I also want someone to make it the official food group of the Phillies. Then I want it nominated for sainthood.
I want Charlie Manuel to live forever.
I want it to snow only when it’s convenient for me—like in a snow globe.
I want people to quit wondering who the fifth man in the rotation will be. Like at my house, we’ll just call him, “Pizza Night.”
I want people to stop thinking I’m making a funny face when I’m not.
I want forms to stop asking me if I’m male or female and I want traffic cops to stop that too.
And now that Cliff Lee is back I want to act like a typical woman and find something else to whine about.
That might take some time. Then again, maybe not. Like I often say to my husband, “I thought that would take longer.”
Most of all I want a guaranteed World Series win. I want to parade down Broad Street, I want Chase Utley to throw the f-bomb to fire up all those hypocrites who use it but don’t want their kids to hear it from someone else, and I still want Kevin Costner to give me a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts three days.
With those new stalker laws that last one might be tough. I sure hope they’re lenient on stalkers in heaven because when I die, I’m hunting down Harry Kalas and Robin Roberts. That might entail a small chase and some jail time but sooner or later they’ll have to talk to me. It’s not like we won’t have eternity.
Hey, is it a copyright infringement to have Chase Utley’s butt engraved on your tombstone? And is it a violation to spy on the Phillies locker room when you’re a ghost? It won’t be near as haunting as seeing me in person.
Well, that’s my bucket list. You might be thinking it more closely resembles the one they give you when you’re about to puke; you also might say exactly what my husband says—she might look funny but she’s not. But you can’t argue that the 2011 Phillies’ rotation will be an amazing fan experience. It might not be the best rotation ever but it’s here and it’s now.
And to the dismay of many, so am I.
See you at the ballpark.
Copyright 2011 Flattish Poe all rights reserved
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