Saturday, April 29, 2006

The Pierogi Conspiracy

Most Phillies fans need no more evidence to convince them that “color man” Chris Wheeler is an inbred retard. But if anyone’s withheld passing that judgment, he only needs to know that the man had his first pierogi only “a few years ago” -- this after living all his life here in Philadelphia, a city that boasts some of the most thoroughly-seeded Polish neighborhoods outside of Warsaw, or, closer to home, Pittsburgh, whose denizens include a plurality of Eastern European types who shove more kielbasa, kraut and other peasant food down their throat than say, your garden variety Boston Irishman.

The topic was broached as his idiot-in-arms Scott Graham was breaking the tension between innings of another gag-inducing Phillies defeat by observing “after all, who doesn’t like a pierogi?” after a crew of potato-encrusted corporate mascots ran a race to the delight of the Pittsburghers, who had to be happy enough to dance the polka while watching their National League-worst team bitch-slap the Fightins’ again, 3-2.

“Backwoods” Chollie set the table for the defeat at the hands of the Evil Pierogis of Pittsburgh, saying yesterday that the players recite a chant of “we’re good, we’re good, we’re good,” yet are quickly sinking in April again, having guaranteed a third straight year of losing records in the opening month and prompting another Sisyphusian struggle the rest of the season.

This team should try another mantra – maybe “We suck” – because the one they are reciting to Chollie doesn’t do them any good. Or maybe that link of ‘basa is too long for their deep throats. What else are the poor, starving Philly fans to think after another lackluster loss at the hands of another pitching nobody, this time 23-year-old whippersnapper Chris Maholm (say it like “Gollum”) who entered the game with a 7.40 ERA yet tonight looked like the second coming of Warren Spahn in his domination of the “We Goodies.”

In all fairness to Country Chuck, it seems as if he’s not buying the team’s reassurance, as they will soon have a fishing pole in his hand if things don’t change soon.

“Your performance proves how good you are,” Chollie said after reporting the club’s new chant, intimating that the recitation was about as effective as Rich Dubee’s sex change operation.

“No truer words were ever spoken,” responded Larry Anderson, a color man that leaves the inanities for the pierogi-deprived, and man enough to admit in so many words that the Phillies do, in fact, suck.

It can be admitted with confidence that while they are busy sucking a bone, the Phils are able to perform high comedy.

Pat Burrell, that vacant stare well short of one thousand yards, had an RBI single to tie the game at 1-1 in the 4th inning, this after Ryan Howard, whose alacrity in the field has made fans pine for the days of Tommy Hutton, failed in the previous inning to glove an errant throw by David Fucking Bell, who, to his credit, made a nice stop on a ball headed into the hole. All hell broke loose, and before you knew it, a man stood on second as Phils pitcher Cory Lidle ran to the shallow outfield to retrieve the precious orb that was either too hot for the other infielders to handle or who were too slothful to give a damn. The run scored on a single by the anonymous, weak-hitting Chris Duffy, and the game was tied, but the damage could have been worse as Duffy, assuming the Phils were still asleep, ran the Bucs out of the inning by getting caught trying to sneak his way to second after the ball was thrown back to Lidle on the mound.

No problem for the Pierogis, though. Mummified Jeremy Burnitz sealed the victory in the bottom of the fourth with a two-run homer, and he pranced around the bases like a bald chicken on crank. No doubt he was overjoyed. Before the fatal blow, he was 3 for 36.

The top of the fifth witnessed “Clown Boy” Bobby Abreu yucking it up in the dugout, a smile from ear-to-ear. The moron philosophers in the broadcast booth tried to explain Team Psycho’s predicament, disregarding his jocularity.

“A ball club never looks any flatter than when it’s not hitting,” Graham told the world, bringing it down to the level of a child.

“Nothing’s flatter than right turns,” Wheeler retorted, obviously showing the effects of the pierogis laced with strychnine.

Aaron Roward homered for show in the Phils half of the eighth, but it wasn’t enough. The ninth was excitement incarnate, as the Phils, happy not to swing, loaded the bases on walks with one out for the immortal Alex Gonzalez, who was called in from the clubhouse where he had been smoking crack.

”AGonz,” signed as a utility infielder and pinch hitter, didn’t disappoint – if you were rooting for the Pierogis. He remained hitless as a pinch hitter, bouncing into a game-ending double play and lowering his average to a stunning .067.

“Can you believe it?!” Voice of God Harry Kalas intoned in his characteristic dulcet tone.

“Hard to believe, Harry,” Richie Ashburn must have deadpanned while turning in his grave.


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