Kuzul

When you do stand-up comedy you’re supposed to start with your second best stuff and finish with your finest stuff.

That eliminates anything to do with my boobs.

My husband says that eliminates any chance I have of doing stand-up.

Thanks, honey.

So the challenge is how to start this blog with something almost as funny as how I’ll end it based on a premise that’s pertinent to baseball.

That narrows it down to my nose. The problem is it’s hard to show you via Bleacher Report that my honker takes the shape of a Phillies “P” when I’m cleaning it out with a Kleenex.

Like my husband says, “I’ll make sure they carve Almost funny on your tombstone.”

Let’s face it, most bloggers could give this up at any time. So what is it that drives us to attempt to capture the attention of those who peruse Bleacher Report?

You could ask one of the Bob’s: Warja or Cunningham—they’re the heavy hitters. I’m about a buck soaking wet. I couldn’t keep up with them with a subscription to Elias Sports Bureau and a five pound thesaurus.

Check out Matt Goldberg. He’s posted for a only few weeks yet he’s collected medals faster than Michael Phelps and earned a slot in the prestigious ranks of Featured Columnists like Vincent Heck, Asher Chancey, and Jamie Ambler…

… not to mention Gary Suess. How can I be envious of a guy named after the greatest poet of all time? I feel like I should give him a hug. Not on a rug or near a bug—just hug him like I hold a mug.

There are even a few babes running up the ranks. Like Judy Davidson. She’s been dishing out Phillies’ fodder for over a year and attracts triple digit reads with every post.

And who’s this new Baseball Bunny? I’ll bet she’s pretty. Rats! I’ll have to increase the blur on my Avatar.

Now for those of you unfamiliar with Bleacher Report (code word B/R) I should tell you why fanatics like those listed above and I joined a site that creates obsessive-compulsive insane maniacs.

It’s the quest for an elusive intangible called the “read.”

And once you post a blog, there are features you subscribe to that control the way you’re informed of your “read” dominance via email:

First, they let you know your article has been published. Since you’re the one who wrote it that’s a rather dubious honor, but none-the-less it gives my heart a twitter just to know they’ve acknowledged me.

Hey, I’m married—I’m desperate for attention.

Then they’ll tell you when your article has been edited. This means someone other than you or the loved ones you’ve coerced via Facebook have clicked on your lame link even if they didn’t read it. Your vitals freeze as you wait for editor comments to rise from the page like a Phoenix.

Maybe I got a compliment!

B/R will also tell you when someone has commented on your article—even if you’re the one who did. Sometimes I comment on my own blog just to fill my inbox with stuff other than the spam I subscribe to that makes me look like I have friends.

And they’ll send you a notice when someone has contacted you via internal B/R email. This is super secret stuff. It makes you feel like a spy; like they’re sharing classified material with you.

I’ve only been contacted internally by mistake.

Finally the ultimate email: You’ve received an award! Woo hoo! If only I had a chest to pin it on! I hope it doesn’t clash with my shoes! You’ll admire how cool it looks to have a sparkling medal by your name and imagine smiling for a camera somewhere where they actually give a crap.

After you collect your first few “reads,” you’ll notice how addictive it is to watch your “read” count jump. This is when you Google a 12-step program for blog abuse.

Your eyes bulge when you discover your article posted on the main Phillies page and then you check constantly to see if you made the page for the whole MLB. You’ll deprive yourself of food and water, sustaining life on “reads,” and start telling your child to sit and your dog to get ready for school.

This is your brain; this is your brain on B/R.

You’ll create a little icon at the top of your browser so instantly you’re viewing your profile to cherish how fast your “reads” have increased. And you’ll dream that someday your count will reach infinity and beyond!

But when someone’s watching you’ll try to act cool. Instead of clicking on the B/R icon that flashes you every moment like a free porn site, you’ll log casually into email as if there are so many fascinating people contacting you that checking every half hour is essential to avoid missing that dinner invitation with, oh, let’s say Mitch Williams.

Then there’s the possibility that someone thinks enough of your stuff to broadcast it. Anybody at anytime could re-post your blog and you wouldn’t know. The first time you witness your article’s read count skyrocketing, you’ll get suspicious—somehow, some way, your article is appearing on another website. But where?! Ahhh!! Someone has re-posted my blog and I don’t know who!!

Your mind races with a way too high opinion of yourself: I’ll bet my post is on ESPN or MLB.com or even on the Phillies home page!! I’ll bet the powers-that-be have reserved a spot for me right next to Todd Zolecki!

At this very moment I’ll bet I’m being read by Charlie Manuel!!

But your hopes are thrashed when you read an email notification from B/R: they’re in a partnership to highlight some articles on Philly.com so if you check right now, you could see your article posted for the next 20 minutes.

I feel like a Sham Wow.

But hey, that’s good, right? Philly.com publishes the Inquirer and the Daily News. Wow, my writing was published for the whole City of Brotherly Love to see. I’ll bet someone even said, “She sucks.”

I love this place.

At one point I was so obsessed with my pursuit of “reads,” I started wishing B/R would email me every single time I got one. Then that wasn’t enough. I wished they’d come tell me—send a messenger to wherever I was to say, “Yo, you got another!”

Of course the messenger was always a handsome young man with blue eyes, a dashing wink, and an enthusiastic thumbs-up who’d go home with me if he could but respects that I’m married.

(He’s secretly into MILFs.)

Then I wished B/R could read people’s minds. Instead of waiting for one of the rare moments I receive an actual posted comment, it could bug each subscriber’s computer with telepathic equipment to relay not only what they typed but what was said and more importantly, what they thought.

And they’d deliver the message via instantaneous brainwaves: He joined Bleacher Report just to tell you you’re cool.

I knew it!

My husband says he now knows why people are medicated.

That doesn’t deter me from petitioning the White House to get Cliff Lee back. He could stay with me. I have a room with only one large keyhole and I can promise it won’t hurt a bit.

Maybe I’ve said too much. That’s what happens when you get older. I’ll admit age hasn’t been kind—over the years, only my nose has gotten pointier.

Well, I’d love to write more, but I have to figure out why my laundry isn’t drying. Does anyone have an energy saver dryer? You know how they work? They’re like me when I’m tired—they go through the motions but never truly get hot.

For once my husband and I agree on something.

See you at the ballpark.

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe All rights reserved.

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter.

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