Saturday, July 08, 2006

Chollie's Paranoid Evangel: Let Us Pray

Whenever somebody starts saying prayers are needed to help him, you can be assured the white flag of surrender has been raised.

Worse, when somebody starts saying that somebody must be out to get him when there is no articulated or demonstrable threat, anti-psychotic medicine should be considered, as the rest of the sane population might need to control the deluded party before he hurts the innocent.

Read this and tell me if it isn’t the rambling of an unsound mind:

“I don't know if it's you guys or the players or what, but somebody out there has got something against us. Or somebody's not living right. If you guys are very religious, please go to church. Pray for us."

That was Phillies Manager Backwoods Chollie, the imbecile son of a preacher, after last night’s 3-2 loss to the Pirates. The “you guys” to whom he was referring were the reporters surrounding him armed, as he implies, with deadly pen weapons and tape recorder bombs. “The players” were the shizophrenic, coddled millionaires he attempts to “manage,” yet now, as he speciously contends, they got something against themselves.

Somehow, I can’t imagine these narcissists hating themselves.

As far as the somebodies that are “not living right,” I won’t get started on that one in detail, but suffice it to say beating the shit out of your wife would define the term. Not to mention the team brass that let unmellowed angry boy Brett Myers pitch his next turn, thus setting up the blackening of the collective eye of a city the rest of the country takes great schadenfreude in bashing as regularly as Todd Jones’ morning dump.

No, Chollie, Jesus ain’t gonna help you or this collection of slugs. As Sister Mary of Lesbos reminds us heathens, your so-called Lord said, “When I was hungry, you gave me to eat,” and we miserable fans of this 123-year atrocity are starving. The owners, Les Invisibles, have offered us crumbs from their kingly table of plenty (Chase Utley, Ryan Howard), but the nourishment they offer has been soaked in the vomit and piss of the team’s ineptitude. More worrisome, the kids seem to be picking up the bad habits of the other career losers, as prophesied by naysayers who revel in the team’s ineptitude. Billy Wagner can’t keep his mouth shut about his old team, but it turns out he is correct in his assessment.

And now, you say, “Pray for us?” I don’t know if you noticed this lately, dummy, but you’re wearing the monkey suit of a baseball manager, not the cassock or turban of a fairy tale salesman. Maybe you should ask the assembled interviewers after the game to “play for us.” Maybe they can manage more than three hits and a run against a starting pitcher for the Pirates, the worst team in the National League. Did you or the players watch the game video from Ian Snell’s last stellar start against your team, or were you too busy reading your “Strong’s Concordance?”

Did the Apostles in heaven conduct fielding practice or was it you who permitted your All-Star second baseman to become the third-worst fielder in the league? Did Jelly Roll speak in tongues and come up with that lineup card every day that has him leading off? Was Baby Girl Burrell fucking Mary Magdalene every night before looking like a leper at the plate?

There are libraries filled with descriptions of the “variety of religious experience.” Without a doubt, the next real-world epiphany in this town will be when Chollie is cast into the hell of unemployment, where his idol hands, already the devil’s playthings, will be far away from Philadelphia.


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