Thursday, June 29, 2006

Play "How We're Going to Lose Today"


It’s time to play “How We’re Going to Lose Today” with your masters of deprivation, the Philadelphia Phillies. The objective is simple. Each player predicts who will be most responsible for the next loss, and what kind of fundamental lapse or failure that player commits.

It seems easy, as baseball, especially for hitters, is a game of failure. But the 2006 Phillies, our beloved Team Vomit, have exceeded all expectations of futility. The fatal flaw in every loss can be committed by anyone with stunning regularity! When they said “Red Means Go,” they weren’t kidding! So let’s begin. Our emcee today will be our beloved hillbilly manager Backwoods Chollie. So without further ado, Heeeeeeeeeeeeere’s IDIOT!

Chollie: Evenin’ Phillies fans, an’ it’s time to play, “How We Gonna Lose Today.” The startin’ eight is lined up in order an’ the pitcha is warmin’ up in da pen. Lookin’ like we headed t’ward anotha staggerin’ defeat. Leadin’ off is Jelly Roll. Let’s hear it fer da Fly Boy!

(Loud and prolonged booing).

Jelly Roll: Thank you, thank you very much. I’d like to get things going right away, so I’ll start swinging from the get-go. (Loud laughter). Ah, I say that Ryan Madson will get shelled for six runs in the second inning after serving up slow fatties down the center of the plate.

(Raucous guffaws).

Chollie: That’s purdy good, Jelly Roll. Dat dare pitchin’ – Uh dunno what to do about dat dang staff. Dat could be the winner. Or would dat be da loser? (Laughter). Chase, yer up next.

Chase Ugly: Hmm. Seems like Jelly Roll has a hand in a lot of our 42 losses. He’s hardly innocent. I mean, it’s like I’m the leadoff hitter after he gets his two swings and pops up. So I say…Jelly Roll runs us out of a big inning because he’s not paying attention on the basepaths!

(Loud applause).

Jelly Roll: Who the fuck anointed you a saint, Utley! Candy-ass mothafucka is the fans’ darling. Shit! Pasadena pussy boy!

Utley: I’m from Long Beach, you Oakland slum prick!

Chollie: Now settle down, boys. Settle down. We haven’t even gotten to da meat of da orduh. Comedulce, Bobby Abreu, put yer two South American centavos into dis here game.

Abreu: Well, my numbers speak for themselves. I lead the league in On Base Percentage. I walk more than Barry Bonds. And I…

(Aaron Rowand approaches from the middle of the panel).

Rowand: And you got a fucking brick glove, Gordo. How many games has that cost us? Jesus Fuck. You cost me an error the other day you’re so scrambled out there.

Abreu: Eso si que es!

Chollie: Tarnation, Co-may-duce-eh. Speak youself da King’s English like yers truly.

Abreu: Okay. I say Scarface in centerfield will puss out near the wall and let the winning hit drop in. There you go, culo!

Rowand (to no one in particular): Why me? Why did the Sox ship me to this asylum?

(Baby Girl Pat Burrell, next in line, jumps in the fray).

Burrell: Because you got “grit,” Crash.


Chollie: Awright, awright. Y’all next anywho, Burrell. By da way, ya sittin’ tonight.

Burrell: But I want to play.

Rowand: Then go diddle yourself in the dugout.

Burrell: Look, dickwad. I’m the only right-handed threat in this lineup. You hit like that whore I picked up in Boston.

Rowand: If only Myers was slapping a whore instead of his wife.

Burrell: I don’t touch bitches. I just get my dick wet every night. I have a reputation to uphold.

Rowand: Yeah, just like Jason Michaels. When’s your arrest coming?

Burrell: Shut up and let me say my piece. I know what’s fucked up with this team. And it’s spelled H-O-W-A-R-D.

(Ryan Howard stands up and glares at Burrell.)

Howard: You got a problem with 27 homers and 68 RBIs? You got a problem with me?

Burrell: I got a problem with your baseball-best 11 errors, Mr. Sophomore. Why don’t you subtract that from 27 dingers, butterfingers?

Howard: Coach, I think it’s my turn.

Chollie: Well, I dunno know ‘bout dat, Ryan. Remembuh, I had ya battin’ ’hind Bell in da seven hole to start the season, y’all.”

Howard: Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. What was that about?

Chollie: Well, y’all were proteckin’ Bell. He’s from a baseball family an' such. He gives his all ever’ day. An' look at da results.

Howard: Results? He’s played in 70 games and has 83 total bases. He boots balls at just the wrong moment. He grounds into more double plays than almost anyone else in the big leagues. Results?

Chollie: Now looky here. He has an On Base Percentage higher than Jelly Roll’s.

(Silence ).

Howard: So I guess the motherfucka should bat leadoff, then, huh?

Chollie: Say…I haven’ thought o’ dat.

David Bell: Anything for the team, Chollie.

Howard: Now wait a minute. I haven’t made my pick. I wanna win something this year, and it might as well be this game.

Chollie: Sorry, son. We was gittin’ ahead of ourselves.

Howard: Alright, look. In a few years, I’ll be in Phat City with a multi-million dollar contract. But before I sign with St. Louis, I need to put up big numbers. So losing makes it harder to put up those numbers. Why should I play this game? We should be playing “How Are We Going To Win Today!”

Chollie: That’s an interessin’ idear, Ryan, but I jus’ dunno how to win. Any sujessuns?

Howard: That’s your job, coach. Damn, how’d you ever get this job?

Chollie: I’s applied fer it.

Howard: Well, they gonna unapply you pretty quick if we don’t start winning.

Chollie: Winnin’? Who said anythin’ ‘bout winnin’? Da goal here is to be com-pet-tuh-tive. Now, play da game. How we gonna lose tonight?

Howard: Fuck this.

Bell: I know, coach!

Chollie: Alrighty, David – shoot!

Bell: Here’s the winner. We get involved in one of those 18-inning marathons. You’ve used the entire pitching staff and bench, except for that old, fat shit Rick Wright. Old Double Zero Wright comes into the game. He collapses after his third inning of work from exhaustion. Because you can’t count, or think, or make provisions for a disaster like that, we no longer can put nine men on the field. FORFEIT!

(Chollie smiles and his patented “Aw Shucks” look is painted across his face).

Chollie: You know, Dingdong, I sure is gonna miss yer ass after ya sign to play with yer Daddy in Kansas City. You da losin’ winna.

(Sal Fasano storms up to Chollie’s podium and demands to be heard).

Fasano: But I didn’t get a chance! I wanna play! I wanna play!

Chollie: Shut yer trap, paisano, you’re nothing but a mascot here. We just keepin’ ya to sell tickets to Sal’s Pals. But don’ get yer ganda up. You always be a loser to me.

(Chollie leaves the podium and approaches rookie hurler Cole Hamels, fresh off his latest failed outing. Hamels addresses the manager).

Hamels: Seriously, I suck. I suck more today than yesterday.

Chollie: Now don’t ya worry yer skinny ass, son. Aftuh a season up here wid da Phils, y’all er git yer feet wet and be a career loser ‘for ya know it.


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