Bend Over, Here It Comes Again
Do you hate yourself yet? Did you make it to work on time? Maybe you drank yourself to sleep?
You knew as well as I what you were getting yourself into last night…this morning…whatever. Major League Baseball, via its evil proxies, the umpires, decided THE SHOW MUST GO ON so they demanded Team Schizo and the Gnats engage in mortal, splishy-splashy combat for millions of drowsy Philadelphians up past their bedtime watching on cable and the 119 fans still hardy enough to remain unseated and wet on location. They sure as shit weren’t from Washington – they were masochists, performing Phillies flagellation “wit,” assembled at the waterlogged modernist monstrosity named for a murdered Red Sox fan – and, if they held out any hope these choke artists could beat a last-place team, they were as deluded as a jihadi who supposes the world would be a better place if we squatted on prayer rugs and stopped eating hot dogs.
Jesus Fucking Christ. Now there was a name invoked bedside as the glow of plasma televisions were doused throughout Hostile City boudoirs a few clicks beyond 2 a.m. as the Fightless meekly went down in a swampy, foggy city-state with a southern accent that assumed governance from Philly a long, long time ago and tonight made the city’s baseball team their bitch.
Let’s be fair to the Gnats. They won it fair and square – relished it, as a matter of fact.
“It's good to go out and ruin their season," said Ryan Church after the game, savoring his midnight home run that gave the Gnats a 1-0 lead. “Now they've got to get on a plane, take a two-hour flight, then strap it on against a good Florida team tomorrow.”
Tell you what. Any alpha male would file that comment for next season and direct a little high heat toward that guy’s noggin. Do you really think our pansies might insist on a little retribution? Fat fucking chance, considering these boys have been every pitcher’s speed bag this year, getting plunked more than 100 times yet…no fight. No bile. No vim. No vinegar.
Yeah, they’ll strap it on, alright. I’m sure they can afford the finest in dildos.
Jesus Fuckup Phillies. Their opposition tonight on the mound was a rookie mediocrity who owned them, a 26-year-old who has allowed 35 percent of hitters to reach base against him. Tonight, the Pukies succeeded to get three hits and two walks off him. They touched him for a run. Bad? No, that was the good part. The bad part was the Gnats relievers, sensing the desperation of a trapped animal, allowed just two hits the final four innings of the game.
Jesus Fuckup Rollins. Jesus Fuckup Victorino. Jesus Fuckup Utley. Jesus Fuckup Howard. Jesus Fuckup Conine. Jesus Fuckup Burrell. Three hits between the six of them. By the way, congratulations, Conine. You’re a Phillie now!
And don’t give me that shit about Howard being the MVP and I should lay off him. Fuck that. I gave him his “props” as the kids like to say. But now he’s swinging at junk and can’t ignore the adrenaline. As Chollie might say, “he’s like a hedgehog that can’t git out from under the water pail. Stuck, like. Confused, as it were.” Frank Robinson could smell blood Tuesday, and, unlike every other manager this month, had his closer challenge him to end the game. Ryan, I love you like a son, but I feel horrible about your choice of profession: You’re a Phillie now!
Oh, what the fuck. Maybe Chollie can drain a bottle of V.O. and settle back for a few nights on Miami’s South Beach with the teetotaling Jelly Roll, and review the season with somebody who compared himself with Derek Jeter, obviously ignoring his team’s results and his championship season virginity, his maiden’s head as safe for another year as his manager's job.