Kuzul

I drive a Honda CRV.

It might be the first of its kind; it could be the prototype. There is nothing modern about it. The only gauge I have measures gas; mileage stacks up via flipping digits, and mechanical failures are indicated when the appropriate circle lights up red.

Some people call them idiot lights. That’s because when they glow, idiots wait a few weeks to see if they’ll go out—all by themselves.

I think Ruben Amaro Jr. has a few on. The problem is there’s one that won’t go out all by itself.

Admittedly he’s concerned about pitching. And admittedly he has what it takes to get what he wants. That can only mean two things: Jayson Werth should keep the beard to accent his sex appeal for a trade and the love affair with Cliff Lee continues to be the quintessential story.

Where do I begin

To tell the story of how great a team can be

A great love story ‘bout the man they call Cliff Lee

Another year with a World Series victory

Oh Ruben please.

The way I understand it, Cliffy’s “Dear John” letter traded him to a soggy AL port so Ruben could restock a farm system with guys a lot like the ones he traded for a Cy Young winner he hoped could pitch as well as the Cy Young winner that earned him the only two wins of the last Series.

Did I get that right?

Well, anyway you say it, it broke my heart.

It was like missing a blue light sale by an aisle.

It was like watching any movie by Nicholas Sparks.

It was like finding out Ricky Martin is gay.

And it was like fumbling for your ID at the liquor store and hearing the clerk say, “I won’t be needing that.”

Now the media is teasing Cliffy because he got flustered when someone whispered the name of his ex World Series partner upon his arrival in Texas. That caused him to commit the faux pas of saying he was a Mariner when he was actually obligated to the Rangers.

Cliff, that’s why you never specifically speak a name when you’re in bed together.

Not that I’d know anything about that—darlin’.

I know I’m not alone in wanting him back, and as a devoted fan I’d like something more concrete than reports that Philly is missed by Cliff.

Even a cheesy commitment will do. Something with no legal basis like a promise ring—or a clanky oversized class ring with a tacky stretch of yarn encircling the bottom.

Actually, all it’d take is a steak dinner and a few catchy lines. Come to think of it, if you drive your own car, have enough teeth to eat a steak, and can at least split dinner, I’m yours.

My point is, I don’t care how you do it, just get the job done.

Hold on. What were we talking about?

Oh yeah, Cliff Lee.

I miss his behind the back defense, the way he quick pitches cocky batters, and his ability to yawn while fielding a ball. Don’t get me wrong, I love Roy Halladay. He throws with surgical precision, he’s devoted and proven, and he tossed the perfect game. But in my book there are two perfect number thirty-fours: Cliff and Roy. Call them 34a and 34b if you like, just don’t call them by the wrong name.

Obviously with all the recent whining Ruben’s been doing about his desire for pitching, he knows this too. So when he considers improving his rotation, he should remember one thing: It takes two.

The Phillies and Cliff Lee were meant for each other.

That’s the only way to make that idiot light go out.

See you at the ballpark.

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter  http://twitter.com/ABabesTake .

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Yesterday, my son wanted to go to the Dairy Queen. Since I’m trying to eat healthy, I inquired about the selections they had that didn’t resemble candy.

The girl offered me a chocolate covered banana.

I said, “That’s it? Don’t you have a more phallic desert?”

Obviously not. So when she handed the treat my way, one thing crossed my mind:

I’ll have to hold this in a way that makes me look like I’m not enjoying it.

But there’s no way I can hide my pleasure about the series win in the Bronx.

Everyone’s thinking the bat formation in front of Chase Utley’s locker before the Thursday whooping was the series clincher, but I believe there’s only one thing that can cause a change this profound:

Charlie Manuel is on performance-enhancing drugs.

Of course I’ve alleged that before. But how else do you explain Greg Dobbs getting a hit, Raul Ibanez stealing a base, or the Phils finding a rally without Jimmy Rollins?

When’s the last time the team hit back-to-back homers? When’s the last time they even got the ball over the fence?

And when’s the last time we spelled bullpen relief like this: Jose Contreras.

I haven’t had that many questions since I spent the night with Jose Cuervo.

And what about that guy named Placido Polanco? His name doesn’t yet roll off our tongues like Rauuuuul Ibanez, but since the questions surrounding his ability to be effective in the hot corner surfaced at his signing, having a guy named Polly has been nothing less than poetic.

He’s the only guy in the starting lineup still hitting .300-plus and he has the highest fielding percentage of third basemen in the National League.

But when he saved Kyle Kendrick from ruin in the sixth by mounting the tarp, his face had this taunt appearance as if he was up to no good.

I’ve seen the same expression on my dog.

He was having a good time too.

That brings us to the most pleasant surprise of the series—Kyle Kendrick. He was welcomed to the show in 2007 and was up against some heavy hitters for Rookie of the Year like Ryan Braun, Troy Tulowitzki, and Hunter Pence.

Although he’s hardly lived up to the accomplishments of those guys, do we dare hope he’s finally on pace?

Last night he not only had his tempo down, he could lead the marching band. Maybe with the pressure of JA Happ’s return and the question of who’s moving to the bullpen, Kendrick was forced to pitch more like a guy who belongs in the rotation than someone who just got lucky.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The great irony is, three days ago Roy Halladay was considered the key to taking this Yankees series. Instead it was won with a kid that caused my ulcer and a grandpa named Jamie Moyer who’s intent on being the oldest pitcher to do everything.

Wait, that made Jamie sound like my dog.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It might be too early to sing Kyle’s praises—he still walked two and only fanned three, but the composure he showed made him look as stoic as that other strawberry blond, Roy Halladay.

There’s one thing the two hurlers didn’t have in common last night—Kyle Kendrick smiles when things go his way. I saw a big toothy smile.

And barring a great hit here or a good catch there, there’s been a drought of things to smile about lately.

So the big question remains: Have the Phillies turned things around?

That depends. Are you arranging knickknacks in your curio cabinet or talking baseball?

I will say this: There’s no doubt I’d rather be enjoying Phillie wins then munching down on a treat of extraordinary size with a guilty look on my face.

But let’s face it—every game is 27 outs. Charlie went as far as to say if they win every series, they’ll be sitting pretty.

And if they do that, there’s no way I can act like I’m not enjoying it.

Regardless of what my husband says.

See you at the ballpark.

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved. Catch life one-liner at a time at http://twitter.com/ABabesTake

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Charlie Manuel shuffled the lineup again. That’s good, I like adding something new to the same old routine.

Just like me, Charlie must have a drawer he goes to when things go stale.

Hypothetically speaking.

I imagine the Phils are scraping the barrel on superstitions by now. At this point they’re probably wearing children’s panties, playing hopscotch on the way through the clubhouse, and buttering their Pop-Tarts from right to left.

You heard me. Butter on Pop-Tarts. It covers all four food groups: butter, sugar, flavor, and crust.

But honestly, it’s time to really shake things up.

I’ll start.

This babe’s opinion of what the Phillies are missing is heart. The team has as many errors in about 60 games as they did all last season, and figures suggest that aliens abducted the real Phils in mid-May. But most importantly, I’m beginning to think the only reason they looked so good was because the competition was so bad.

It’s the same concept behind Lady Gaga selling records.

Whoa!!! That’ll stir things up. Maybe the Gaga will give me the finger, then me and Mets fans will finally have something in common.

And maybe I’ll finally get the recognition someone else deserves.

Fat chance. Last year I alleged that Charlie Manuel was on performance-enhancing drugs and all I got was a few reads. Poor Jerod Morris of Midwest Sports Fans actually had a basis for making his allegation about Raul Ibanez and he was chastised on national television.

What’s a girl got to do to earn some disrespect?

I know, I’ll trade sex for ballpark seats.

My husband says that’s already been done.

Is nothing sacred?!

My brother texted me the reason the Phillies are fumbling: That’s what happens when you quit cheating.

My reply was rich in reasoning and intelligence: You’re ugly.

Seriously though, what’s a manager to do? He’s in charge of grown men who play sports professionally. They know their job, they know the game, and they know they get paid millions of dollars to produce. But what if, like the guys who claim to be searching for a solution to the BP spill, Charlie’s out of options?

I don’t think setting off a nuclear bomb will stop the earth from emptying its soul into the Gulf of Mexico and I don’t think setting fire to someone’s fanny will make him hit the ball.

Hey, maybe if I sat on Jayson Werth’s lap it would set something off.

My husband says, “Yeah, the remnants of his lunch.”

He would know. In my house a wind instrument isn’t a clarinet and he calls me the human Whoopie Cushion.

And with that, I think I’ve taken a nose dive into disrespect.

Hopefully I’ve said plenty without saying anything at all. Maybe someone somewhere will appreciate my ability to say nothing of value for long periods of time and decide to give me a chance.

Wait. Isn’t that the prerequisite for public office? I can just see my campaign qualifications: ability to lose train of thought while spouting vividly incoherent sentence fragments.

Hey, it worked for (insert favorite politician here).

I would have written my preference but I don’t discriminate. I even believe bi-partisans should serve in the military.

Now I’m done. Hopefully I’ve taken a little heat off the home team and spiced up a day that could end in a disappointing series sweep.

I’ll say goodbye the same way my husband bids farewell to my son.

Go ahead—pull my finger.

See you at the ballpark.

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Some people like dogs. Some people only like big dogs.

I don’t blame them. Big dogs are real dogs—a man’s dog. They eat a man-sized meal and take a man-sized crap. They can down a steak in one gulp and leave you a gift the size of a baseball glove when you screw up.

Boston took one hell of a dookie on the Philadelphia Phillies.

The pinstriped NL Pennant champs returned to the scene of their May skid hoping for a Groundhog Day, but got their bats handed to them on a Fenway platter.

The trouble didn’t start with a Boston teammate with a catchy nickname like “Dice-K” or by letting a baseball villain called “The Knuckleballer” have his way with you.

Not that letting a knuckleballer have their way with you is such a bad thing. You don’t ever know where it’s gonna go. In the dark, that could be quite an adventure.

But an adventure is not what the Phillies were hoping for. Baseball isn’t like combing your room for a missing sock or discovering what that bottle of Tequila did with your pants.

Last night’s game felt like a scavenger hunt for a pitcher who could go more than an inning and wouldn’t leave us in suspense.

That reliever was actually a starter named Kyle Kendrick. I’m hoping that means one thing—JA Happ’s coming back. I could really use a change of scenery in section 145 and Happ has quite a tight backside.

But after giving up three hits in as many innings in his rehab start on Tuesday, the possibility of sticking him in the rotation seven days later seems as improbable as my breasts ever attracting attention.

To add insult to injury, the Sox replaced the mildly effective John Lackey with Boof Bonser.

Obviously that’s a real guy.

Boof has spent his major league career perfecting his 2010 ERA of 18.0. He’s even been spotted moonlighting as a hotdog vendor. Fortunately, tossing dogs to patrons has kept him in shape. So after the opposition took a comfortable lead against a slumping Philly team and Jamie Moyer turned the game into a scrimmage, Terry Francona decided to empty his bench.

He just reached a little far into the stands to do it.

Suddenly we’re not thinking Jamie will be playing with one of his sons in the years to come. The Moyer fleet might just lose its captain.

And that brings us to the million dollar question: How much more faith can Charlie Manuel have in players who aren’t effective?

Answer: Ask Dave Trembley.

Whoa! Now before you get your panties in a bunch (and if you’re wearing boxers you probably already do), remember, I’m just kidding.

I’ve always loved Charlie. Even before the weight loss. I love him as a manager, I adore the way his cheeks rumble when he chomps his gum, and I’m still trying to bribe my way into the locker room.

That might have just gotten easier.

But a slump isn’t something that can be assessed and fixed like a car, and putting mind over matter isn’t like learning to bend spoons.

In other words, having a big dog will only guarantee you one thing: big turds.

Meanwhile, I’m happy waiting around to see the losing streak replaced by another, even if I have to run across the field naked to set the pace.

Hey, there are few things funnier than a tiny naked woman getting Tasered on national television. The good news is those little blurry spots won’t have to be too big to hide my privates.

That’ll be one for the scrapbook.

See you at the ballpark.

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“You can do a lot with two inches.”

That’s what my son said while pondering his binder preferences at Staples.

Maybe you can.

You can also do a lot with two pitches. Cole Hamels tossed his curve into his limited repertoire but it was his fastball and change-up that ruled the game.

As a result, Ricky Botallico said Cole Hamels has “turned the corner.”

Are you kidding me?

That’s like saying my child is safe because he hides a cheap Swiss Army knife under his pillow to fight off perspective burglars. I said, “What you gonna do… file his nails to death?”

No doubt Cole had a hot night against a tough interleague rival. He threw 116 pitches—76 for strikes, sent eight batters back to the bench bitching, walked one, and allowed one earned run on three hits. But the question remains: Has he turned the corner?

Let’s just say he put on the blinker. Except for excessive home runs and walks allowed this year, it looks like he’s recovered from his 2009 hangover. But Cole is more comfortable pitching with an offensive cushion and the lineup gave him that. He’s also less flustered when his fielders aren’t flubbing and he got that too.

But showing mild displeasure as the result of a bad strike call can’t be considered a new level of maturity.

Maybe he’s outgrown the terrible twos, but all moms know when your pitcher is tired and grumpy all you can do is put him to bed.

I’m just the girl to do it.

I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud?

In this 5-1 Phillies win, the lineup was restored to its previous luster—if only for a moment. Jimmy Rollins stepped to the plate first while Shane Victorino was demoted to seventh because it let him watch more guys bat in front of him.

That’s a warm, fuzzy feeling I thought you could only get by rolling naked in polar fleece.

Not that I’d know anything about that.

But then Jimmy limped to first base in the sixth and Juan Castro took his place—again. Saturday I predict Shane will bat leadoff—again. And I’ll bet Wilson Valdez, freshly outrighted to Lehigh Valley, is packing enough socks and underwear to come back for at least 15 more days—again

The injury report has also changed the life of Paul Hoover. I’m willing to bet he’s found himself a home as permanent backup pitcher. It was an untimely strain for Brian Schneider but one man’s misfortune becomes another man’s wife.

Just ask Jayson Werth. An injury to Geoff Jenkins is what gave every girl the option to drool over the bearded wonder and gave Jayson the opportunity to prove he was an everyday player.

Now he’s landed on baseball’s 50 best list at a humble 49th. He’s behind like, well, everybody, but look on the bright side: Hanley Ramirez made the top 50 best players in baseball but he won’t make the top 50 best teammates.

And I’m certain my boobs are as big as they’re gonna get but my butt isn’t.

Did you hear? Pat Burrell was released from his duties as a pinch hitter for Tampa Bay. He can now be had for a cool $350,000—that’s what a player is worth when all he has left is one tool.

He’d get picked up faster placing an ad in the personals.

Baseball’s a tough crowd. What if I was off my game? Would I be put out to pasture with the other middle-aged innuendo junkies and see people hold up signs in my honor that read, “Mom or Machine?”

And if contracts are all about ability to perform, maybe Jimmy Rollins is coming closer to being considered a trade alternative to keep Jayson Werth. Jimmy has been around longer than any of the Phil’s original draft picks on the current 25 man roster. He was chosen in 1996 and is playing his eleventh season with the team. He’s spent more time as a Phillie than Pat Burrell or even Brett Myers who found a new home because he couldn’t get his mojo back after surgery.

Now Jimmy’s injured—again.

Like Terry Francona told the struggling David Ortiz, “You don’t take for granted the time together.” With Ruben Amaro Jr. weighing options to keep his outfield intact, this might be a no-brainer.

Unless Jimmy’s calf can turn the corner.

See you at the ballpark.

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The Phils were desperate for one of two things before they left San Francisco: a win or a day off. They got both—just in time to settle down for a nine inning nap.

After last night’s 9-1 slaughter by the Mets, Charlie took the podium. Usually he recites the team stats, but last night he shifted his hat with a nervous smile and said, “Hey, does anyone have the phone number for Pedro Martinez?”

Actually he didn’t say that, but I dreamed of him mumbling it and ending with a slight stutter on P-P-P-Pedro as if he was selling a Chia Pet.

Hey that’s an idea—a Jayson Werth Chia Pet giveaway. It would grow like mad because Jayson gets his energy from his hair. If that’s really the case, I wish he would’ve shared some locks with his teammates.

What’s the problem? Last week Shane Victorino broke the air speed velocity of the English Swallow by going from first to home on a single. But last night he couldn’t beat a badly jostled ball by Rod Barajas from home to first.

Can you say, “Benchwarmer?”

Even that high-priced pony Ryan Howard is struggling—again.

My dad sent me some calculations. Now, I don’t put a lot of faith into the old man’s figures because the guy can hardly see his calculator through his scratchy lenses, but this is what he said: Howard is paid $41,000 for each at-bat. And based on the average umpire’s salary, the guy behind the plate gets only $9 to call Ryan out on strikes.

But the guy who bought the $5 beer would have called it a ball and the man eating the dollar dog said he could’ve hit that pitch.

My husband said Ryan’s contract isn’t worth the gas that passes from his ass.

But the bats weren’t the only things that smelled. Kyle Kendrick gave up four earned runs on three homers in five innings.

Here’s a hint: those numbers didn’t work for Kyle, so don’t play them in the lottery.

And no one’s said anything about seventh inning wonder, Danys Baez. After a one-two-three sixth, he took the mound in the seventh and almost pitched for the cycle.

He hit the first batter, then allowed an RBI double, a walk, a stolen base, and a two-RBI triple before Charlie Manuel threw little Davey Herndon to the lions.

Herndon couldn’t hold Angel Pagen on third to keep the earned runs for Baez to three, but he was able to minimize the damage so Brad Lidge could make his first major league appearance in 2010.

Before the game, nobody would obligate to saying if or when Lidge would return. But they didn’t have a choice when Ryan Madson broke his toe while Dancing with the Chairs after his blown save on Wednesday.

How do you explain that one? I miscued my Polka kick?

Brad was busy. He gave up a dinger on his third pitch to the anti-Phil, Rod Barajas. Then three batters, two hits, and .1 innings are all it took to give Lidge a nasty ERA.

My husband now calls him Bad Lidge. And my child summed up the game’s intensity: “Mom, our dog has fleas.” So my Yorkie got a bath while the Phils tried to recover from one.

What happened to those exciting games? The ones where Carlos Ruiz assisted the team with a strike-out/throw-out double play. Or when Shane reached over the wall and brought down a snow cone. Or when Juan Castro glove-tossed a ball from the ground to Chase Utley who bare-handed the catch and fired to first for a double play? When’s the last time we saw a double steal, a simple stolen base, or a streaker?

What happened to the team that was so exciting they inspired the old man ball-girl to field a live ball in another team’s stadium?

What’s happened to the real Philadelphia Phillies?

Help, it’s Freaky Friday! The Mets are looking like the Phillies are supposed to and the Phils are performing the way everyone said the Mets should. And for the first time since the new millennium, the Phils are behind the Nationals in the NL East.

Someone, somewhere is finding a way to pin this on the liberals.

But could it really be the Jimmy Rollins curse? When Jimmy’s hitting the Phils are winning. Well, we won’t know tonight. With ol’ Roy Halladay taking the mound, it’ll take a shutout to keep the Phils from getting the win. But stranger things have happened.

Like Jamie Moyer up against Johan Santana on Sunday. Now, if Jamie throws an 80 mph pitch, can it rightly be called a “fast” ball?

We’ll find out tomorrow.

See you at the ballpark.

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