So, I've had a few days to do my little piss-pants dance and get over the fact that we're not going to be playing tonight. It's fine, really. I've come to rationalize in my head the many reasons why I should not kill myself. I have a wonderful family, my birthday is tomorrow so maybe I'll get something cool, I still haven't seen Social Network...
In a drunken haze I kinda wrote this last column for the Philadelphia Weekly about why you shouldn't be a Debbie-Downer sour-fucking -puss about being eliminated by the corny giants. Yes, it stings to lose to such dick-in-mouth busters but folks, really, let's be honest.They played a better series. I hate to agree with a front office pencil pusher but even Rube was right. The Phils didn't have a single hot player during the entire post season offensively. It was all defensive swinging and hope. Kind of like a those parties my parents used to go to.
Here's the column peppered with a little extra that sure as fuck wouldn't have made it into the Liberal Times of Philadelphia without a roofie for the Editor and a costume change for it's readership. They always take my fucks away. I honestly can't write anymore about this end at the moment. It's still too fresh on the brain and in many respects I'm not a journalist, I'm just a fan with a razor sharp wit and large vocabulary of dicks and sacks. I try to be objective but most times it stings. I still can't not call-out the team for not showing the fuck up, I just do it for considerably less money. Still I offer a slightly tender seasons-end piece.
And just like that it’s over. The Phils lose, life sucks again. My days will be filled with meaningless crapola like raising my son and beating my wife until the sun dawns on the spring. Though, as I sit here all busted up about the loss to San Fran and subsequent elimination, I am filled not with anger, but with bittersweet pride. I cannot look back on this series, or season for that matter, with a sour puss. And yes, I’ve tried.
Sure they pretty much handed the Giants that series and couldn’t do dick with runners in scoring position. Why didn’t fucking Howard just swing the fucking bat? Why didn’t Mike Sweeney get the bat instead of Gload in Game 6? What was up with Utley, was he secretly injured? So many questions and so many dreams flushed down the fucking toilet, but I’m not here to piss and moan about it. Of course I’d like to light AT&T park on fire, piss on the ciders and then shit in that cunt Pat Burrell’s steroids, but that’s just not in the cards. A season of dramatic highs and devastating lows is in our rearview and all I can do is swell.
Who among you could’ve predicted that our boys would’ve taken us into late October nights back in dimal May and June? Not one of us could’ve hoped to be sullenly reading this stupid column right now after watching a weary Jamie Moyer get teed-off on for nine runs in the first two innings of inter-league play at Fenway or Jayson Werth go 104 at-bats without a home run.
None of us could’ve expected a National League Division Series Champs T-shirt to be covering our unfuckable, fat bodies after watching Ross Gload, Wilson Valdez, Juan Castro and Greg Dobbs (well, maybe not) put more men across the plate than our trusties for most of the early summer. When we got shut out for an entire series in Flushing against the worthless Mets did any of you think we’d be punching a hole in our walls over an NLCS defeat?
Consolation is the weakest of prizes but there are a few that can comfort us in this hour of defeat. The Braves—our closest divisional rival ability-wise—bit the dust in a most disgraceful manner as they wished fond farewell to their longtime skipper, Bobby Cox. He'll have plenty of time to beat his wife after retirement to satiate his desire for victory but still don't you think the 'necks wanted to bring him home another title?
Look at the sorry Mets. A billion games back and a billion sad sacks wear those colors. At the season’s end they’re without a manager, general manager and dignity. The next 2 men that step into those roles better bring wear condoms on every appendage.
Out of 162 games we owned 97 of them in a year that saw our top stud, Roy Halladay, pitch two no-hitters. We watched Chase Utley call Jonathan Sanchez a pussy on national television and witnessed a journeyman by the name of Wilson “The Goat” Valdez win the hearts and rotten minds of us all as he played manly substitute for half our beat up infield.
We got to witness Roy Oswalt play left-fucking-field in lieu of Rual Ibanez who was taking over for Howard at first after the Big Guy was ejected for damn near eating the third base umpire’s face off in a 16-inning slog against the Astros.
We saw Shane Victorino stick a grand slam up the ass of Johan Santana, and Carlos Ruiz pretty much demoralize Jonathan Broxton every chance he could, batting .1000 off the big horse and almost single-handedly having him demoted from the Dodgers’ closer role.
We can’t forget the aged heroics of Jamie Moyer, who for the first half of the season seemed to be our most reliable starter. At 47, he became the oldest pitcher in the history of the game to toss a shutout back in May against the Braves. Yeah, sure he also broke Robin Roberts record by giving up his 506th career home run, but that’s an indication of longevity, not poor skill.
Really, anyone pissing up a stink about the shit they’ve gone through this summer might as well move to England and follow that other game that’s like baseball, except you wear skirts and have tea breaks.
No one in their right mind can deny that the Phillies are a team to be reckoned with. My whole childhood was spent feeling like I was part of the losers’ class, like my team was a joke. But now we’ve got a team with the balls to dominate the fucking weak. As a city we are sitting pretty, even as we lick our wounds.
I’d like to thank our boys for the ride. Sadly some of you won’t be back next year. Jayson Werth will most likely be embarrassing that fraud Nick Swisher for the big-bucks in New York, and Mike Sweeney will most likely find a new home on a new team that needs man-hugs. You will be missed. Watching Sweeney cry in the post-game 6 interview broke my calloused heart. I think I may start a petition to have that man in the Phils dugout no matter fucking what next year. Don't worry, Mike. None of us want you to go home either.
The rest of you get your beauty sleep, some good wifey pussy and have your shit together for Clearwater. Good show, men. Good show.
See, I was looking on the bright side. It would've been too easy to draw dicks coming out of Howard's face so I went the drunken, take it on the chin route. As my friend Richie Penetrator--wanted in 3 counties-- put it "You gotta enjoy the highs and suppress the lows of sports." I know that sounds idealistically stoic but he does have a point. I could remain in my underwear, crying, masturbating, crying but I'd rather just masturbate.
This isn't the end of TBSS either, Followers. I'll be popping back in from time to time with trade rumors and interesting anecdotes to keep you savages laughing. I am, after all, Mr. Funny Man. Thank yous all for reading, F's. Without the 41 of you out there in interbutthole land I would have no reason to get up before 2pm, sexually.
Fuck new york and GO CLIFF LEE!
P.S. Cody Ross is going to be a Phillie next year. I'm not excited either. Probably Jeff Francoeur, too.