Do Ex-Phillies Die In Three's?
I’m gonna bring up something morose and depressing, so turn your heads and watch a repeat of “The View” if you can’t handle it. On second thought, Rosie O’Donnell defines morose and depressing, so maybe you should watch “Sponge Bob” if you can’t handle today’s subject, which is death and dying.
I just found out Johnny Callison kicked the bucket today after 67 years on the planet. That’s nearly double the time Cory Lidle, dead at 34, was assigned by the Great Cosmic Jackoff who, if he exists, has designed this life like John Calvin on LSD, with creations like baseball, airplanes with parachutes and restrictions against masturbating in the daylight during certain 30-day cycles (go ask your local imam about that one) all calculated to fucking drive us out of our childish gourds, fascinated with the wonderment of it all. Nothing is fair or makes sense, thus making nuclear weapons a priority second only to the kim chi stockpile.
Now here I am contemplating The Big Inevitable Nothingness just a few days after I was jumping for joy when the Tigers ate the Yankees for breakfast in the ALDS while the A’s did likewise against the Twinkees, who still use a ballpark with a Hefty bag as an outfield fence as opposed to the more durable airplane parachute that failed to open for poor Cory Lidle.
Lidle sure scared the shit outta people as he traversed this plane of existence into the unknown. What a way to go. New Yorkers, half of whom are born psychotic, were all made justifiably and certifiably insane after 9/11, and when Lidle slammed into that high rise, thousands of underpanties must’ve been soiled seconds after impact. And that came just a few days after Yankee fans shit themselves after getting the old heave-ho from the Tigers.
Unfortunately for Cory, he’s dead now, and so is his flight instructor, not to mention a few innocent victims in the high rise he flew into are seriously injured, one suffering from painful burns.
To top it off, Baskin Robbins lost a damn good client.
Nothing is fair or makes sense, right? Now comes the bad news about Callison two days later.
Godless fuck that I am, a revelation has crept over me pursuant to Callison’s demise after a few long illnesses, including heart disease (he was a smoker who tended bar) and his obstinate decision to live in Philadelphia after his playing career despite his Okie roots and other baseball ties to Chicago and New York.
Ex-Phillies, like movie stars and Jesuits, will begin to die in three's. The Great Cosmic Jackoff has foretold this to me. The off-season will become a cornucopia of close calls, assaults, arrests, manic depression, and finally, death – but only for one more EX-PHILLIE.
We are spared the off-season torment of 40-man roster deaths because each game every season is one quiet, inexorable march to the season’s nihilistic end. We all die a little every day with this team. But as for the others…
Ex-Death Number Three is right around the corner.