Kuzul

I love me some Timmy Jim, but I don’t want him in my house.      

Before you start in about the fact that Tim Lincecum wouldn’t want to come over to my dumb house in the first place, he would. It’s close to the ballpark, always has a full fridge, is smoker friendly (on deck) and he could relax on my sectional pregame.

So save it—he’d want to hang out…but he can’t, because he’s covered in disgusting dog hair.

I am an expert in such things, unfortunately. My girlfriend has an English Bulldog named Margaret Thatcher, who, at the very least, enjoys equal voting power in our household.

When I get home, I can’t even look this animal in the eye lest she start urinating on my hardwood floors. She ripped up some Dita sunglasses once, and I almost stroked out when she annihilated my leather John Varvatos jacket last summer…that adorable little scamp.

It’s San Francisco, pal, and I enjoy looking fabulous, okay?…guilty.

Know what I also love? Beach Blanket Babylon and watching Ryan Howard strike out looking, thus catapulting my beloved San Francisco Giants into the World Series.

While dog-loving friends come over and coo and fawn over Margie, I spend the time usually sweeping and trying to reclaim my floors. This, of course, never gets me anywhere, as the bone-white dog hair falls off her back like so many snowflakes in winter.

Fellow dog agnostics will certainly affirm when I state that Margaret’s hair is literally everywhere. It is her legacy. It permeates every crevice of my house and snuffs out a little of my soul each passing day.

This hair is not just gross but may also contain the reason for the dominance of Tim Lincecum…and also why he is not welcome at my place.  

Tim has a pair of French Bulldogs named Cy and Young, who have super names, are cute as a button, and guaranteed, shed like gangbusters all over the two-time Cy Young Award winner and everything he owns. 

It’s on his uniform, all over his house, in his car; it coats his beanie collection and is stuck to his straightening iron right this second.

You can’t escape this stuff, trust me. Each time he accepted his back-to-back Cy Young Awards on the field at AT&T Park, he did it full of dog hair. When he struck out 14 Atlanta Braves in the NLDS, he had the little Frenchies’ cheveux de chien all over him.

When he outdueled Roy Halladay in Game 1 of the NLCS, and then again in Game 3 (well, arguably), that crap was on him again…100 percent certain    

This is no fluke, and Lincecum’s otherworldly performance should not be blindly lauded as a timely “finding of his game” or “taking it to the next level”…this is a pattern.    

Experts contend that hitting a baseball is the hardest thing to do in professional sports, and that is when the pitcher is not rubbing up the ball with French bulldog hair.

Seriously, you think a little Vaseline or spit does something to pitches? You think a surreptitiously hidden emery board used to scuff up the ball gives an edge? You think testicle-shrinking PEDs might do the trick?

What if I could offer a technique that spun micro-fine dog hair into a batter’s eye right before they swung? Fox Sports has that ridiculously cool, super-slow motion replay, the one where you can watch every rotation of the ball. All I’m asking you to do is look a little closer next time, watch the fur fly and be honest with yourself.

Lincecum does not appear to be cheating knowingly, so I would please ask the government to continue focusing most of its vast taxpayer resources on chasing down a retired offender who happened to be using the more traditional PEDs.

Even though that guy was just too scared to come clean, because at the time, the entire world had singled him out as the only problem and the U.S. Government was (and is) after him like Al Capone.

You know the guy I’m talking about—the one who caught all the heat for his silent peers and then watched every one of their subsequent tearful confessions. The one who watched these cheaters get nary a slap on the wrist or even praised for “coming clean” after their names were released in the Mitchell Report.

Even though baseball fans have strangely misplaced their syringe signs, and even though the entire public whose money is financing this witch hunt is already past it…or humbled because of a taint on their own favorite player… Let’s still get that first guy! Yeah!

So, I offer continued success to the U.S. Government in their valuable pursuit against only one of the cheaters.

That being said, if you are going to be consistent, you might consider a few dollars towards looking into the effects of dog hair, how it changes the physics of a baseball and whether you can hit an already unhittable changeup when bulldog hair mist is launched into your eyes.

Because I believe that’s exactly what Tim Lincecum is doing, and it’s endangering the integrity of our national pastime.

Go Giants!…but let’s do this the right way. When Josh Hamilton steps out tomorrow seemingly because a little dirt got into his eye, let’s just make sure that really is dirt and win this thing fair and square…

…and to Tim Lincecum, please don’t drop by.

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After the Phillies failed in their League Championship quest, I planned a hard luck blog in my head.

While words festered in there like a zit from a chocolate Ding Dong, I asked my dad to share a story I’d once heard him tell. But before he did, he wanted me to make one promise:

“Title your blog: My dad says, ‘Don’t pick on the heavy guys.’”

I had to commit because every writer loves a theme and every story needs a hero, and my old man was the key to both. So after I exchanged a title for a gift, he fed me one:

“Bradley was his name. Bradley Johnson. He was our second baseman. Good little leaguer. Always was the best dressed eleven-year-old I ever coached. Hard-nosed and bright—extremely so. We were playing Guttenberg and their pitcher was good-sized for twelve and threw hard. Smoke came behind the ball. After three innings of him it seemed we had done nothing but hit foul balls and cower.

Now I had kids who were not usually afraid because our pitchers threw hard to them in practice. But this guy was exceptional and just that much faster, and perhaps because he was bigger, they were jumping out of the box. So I had a talk about this between innings. I was never one to sugarcoat things, and to stick with this philosophy, I said, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t play teams that are this good. Or maybe I could ask their coach to throw the ball slower. Or perhaps we should just put some girl teams in the schedule.’

No one had anything to say.

The next batter up was Bradley. I don’t remember which pitch it was—the second or third, but he sent it screaming into center field. I was coaching first and after he rounded the bag and hustled back, he looked up from under his too large helmet with bright eyes—eyes that said he’d heard me, and said, ‘That’s a lot harder than you think.’

Our next hitter one-hopped it off the wall and before the inning closed, their coach walked to the mound, head down, and took his pitcher off the field in tears. I found out this was the first time any team had ever hit him. I didn’t share that with my players until much later, and their reactions are a bit foggy in my mind now, but I still vividly recall Bradley’s eyes when he glared up at me and said, ‘That’s a lot harder than you think.’”

The Phillies are still feeling the sting of elimination in a playoff season where all signs pointed to world domination.

We could talk on and on about who was out-pitched, out-hit, out-coached, or out-dueled; we could analyze the stats and ascertain why the underdog came out on top and the odds lied.

We could examine why the Padres “hit the ball where it’s pitched” while the Phillies were looking for their pitch to hit.

We could compare Charlie’s devotion to his starters to Bochy’s bench theory of musical chairs.

We could analyze the shortfalls of a long-ball game and the benefits of small ball.

And we could live the rumors that Phil’s fans are frontrunners or we can stand behind our team and buy what Charlie says, “That’s baseball.”

The reason I’m not distraught about the night where all the rally stayed on the towels is because I spent the hours before that game reflecting on the life of a friend. Glenna’s last wish was to be celebrated in an atmosphere of joy and gratitude with friends rejoicing in the music she loved and the service she had planned.

But as hard as I tried, every word that was spoken made it harder to breathe. Each attempt to utter a word to a song she had chosen made my face tremble, my throat seize and my tears run. It was a trifecta of sadness.

A few hours later, it occurred to me that I had failed miserably to carry through on Glenna’s request to pay my last respects with happiness in my heart, but it wasn’t for lack of effort or desire.

And if I ever see her again, I know exactly what I’ll say: “It’s not as easy as you think.”

I’m sure that’s how the players who made up the postseason roster feel about baseball—someone wins and someone loses.

We can sit back and point fingers, pass blame, analyze misfortune, and harbor guilt, or we can accept that everything worth having in life is hard to get.

I’m not embarrassed by the loss nor do I feel let down by the performance. What disappoints me is that most of the post game reports still refer to the series as lousy.

Maybe they’re writing this because that’s what people want to hear. Perhaps fans aren’t happy until they know the loss has taken its toll on the team.

One loss that day had taken its toll on me and I refused to let the outcome of Game 6 do the same. So I decided since I’d started Tweeting the series in Game 5, I’d bow up and do the same in Game 6.

I’d failed to keep my chin up for a friend so I thought the least I could do was be there for the Phils. My attempt went something like this:

“If the Phils lose I’m gonna start making Jayson Werth paper dolls—I’ll dress him in whipped cream.”

“If the Phillies are facing elimination, they just had a Kaopectate inning.”

“Ken Rosenthal is hanging out in the Phillies dugout hoping the momentum will help him grow.”

“Jayson Werth’s hair is wild. Man, I wish it was regulation to wear no pants.”

“Blown opportunity. I will not expand on that as an innuendo.”

“Watching Jayson Werth on TV through my binoculars definitely enhances a few things.”

“I’m so nervous I’ve had four hairstyles in five innings. Lincecum’s had two.”

“I wish I was a base. What I’d give to be tagged by Jayson Werth.”

“If ears get longer as we age, Lincecum better grow more hair.”

“I’ve been watching pitch placement on the Fox Tracker. Sooner or later they have to find me.”

“Giants are as hot as jalapeño peppers. You’ll feel the effects the next day too.”

“They said, ‘Buster’s the kind of guy who would sneak behind the barn to ‘chew a piece of gum.’’ I wish I’d thought to call it that.”

“I’m gonna brew a new Phillies beer. It’ll have no calories, no carbonation, and no color. I’m calling it, ‘O-fer’”

“Phillies have a double play deficiency. I probably have a salve for that.”

“My son said if you take the first letter from his name, you have ‘ick.’ I said, ‘If you do that to mine, you’re left with an ‘itch.’”

Harmless these one-liners were, but the Tweets that got me in trouble with my dad accumulated over the last two games:

“Sandoval took 10 pitches. They’re giving him oxygen.”

“How to get Pablo Sandoval to hit a single: put a chicken pot pie on first base.”

“The Giants gave Sandoval #48 because they needed numerals that covered a lot of space.”

“If I made a Pablo Sandoval paper doll, I don’t know that there’s enough whipped cream in the world to dress him.”

“I can’t tell the difference between Juan Uribe and Pablo Sandoval, especially at the buffet.”

That’s when my dad said, “Don’t pick on the heavy guys, they’ll come back to haunt you.”

Sure enough, Uribe did. He got me and Ryan Madson with a rare dinger over the right field wall for the go-ahead run. If you want to blame me for the Phillies’ downfall, go ahead.

Since my chest is flat, my shoulders have very little to do but carry this burden.

It will simply add to the pain of my Jayson Werth withdrawals.

One fan said to me, “You ho, what happened to your lust for Raul last year?”

Guilty as charged. Matter of fact, that’s probably one thing I qualify for: The Phillies Whore. It has a nice ring to it: A middle-aged woman with a knack for turning a lewd phrase about baseball doesn’t have a lot of options.

My husband says, “Tell them it’s not as easy as they think.”

Now you know why I keep him around.

All the attention I pay to men in uniform including pregame, post game, news and blogging certainly doesn’t pay an enviable hourly wage, but it’s a wonderful passion to have.

Like my friend, Glenna, said about her obsession with playing music: “You might have to pay me to stop.”

That’s exactly how I feel.

See you at the ballpark.

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter.

Read more MLB news on BleacherReport.com

It’s time for another World Series. Time to take attendance.

In the National League—San Francisco Giants? Check. Lineage of the old New York Giants—the franchise of Ott, Mathewson, Hubbell, Mays, Durocher and Irvin, then later in San Francisco: McCovey, Marichal, Cepeda, all those Alous. Here’s your pass—good luck out there.

Now to the American League.

Hey, is this someone’s idea of a joke? Who goes there? The Texas Rangers?

The Texas Rangers?

I’m not laughing. This may as well be the World Serious. No time for gags.

Texas Rangers, please have a seat. Where are the Yankees, tied up in the back room? Were the Red Sox too busy? Heck, give me the Oakland A’s—or even the Angels of Los Angeles/Anaheim/Southern California. Let’s make it an intra-state Series.

What happened to the Baltimore Orioles? I hear Boog Powell is ready to club another three-run home run while Earl Weaver steals a smoke in the runway.

Really, stop fooling around here. The Texas Rangers? Aren’t they the team that got their asses kicked by a bunch of dime beer-consuming fans in Cleveland back in 1974? Manager Billy Martin was running around the field at Municipal Stadium wielding a bat, trying to keep the drunks off his players.

What’s tradition with the Rangers? They came from Washington—first in war, first in peace, last in the American League. Ted Williams was the Rangers’ first manager; he lasted one season before he realized he didn’t look good in cowboy boots.

The Texas Rangers? In the World Series?

Where’s Allen Funt and that hidden camera? OK, you got me good. I wasn’t ready for that one. Nicely played.

How could the Rangers be in the World Series? Their all-time greatest team includes Buddy Bell and Pete O’Brien. Is this the Rangers’ reward for being the first team to schedule Sunday night games? Hey, it was only because it was too damn hot to play during the daytime—let’s not go overboard here.

Didn’t Nolan Ryan just pitch for them a couple of years ago? He went from the mound on a Friday to the president’s office on Monday, I hear.

The Texas Rangers, showing up to the World Series? To actually play in it?

Is this like when they elected Carrie as Prom Queen? Are they going to dump pig’s blood on them just before the first pitch in Game 1?

No teams named after a whole state should be in the World Series—isn’t that a rule? The Minnesota Twins did it three times and the Arizona Diamondbacks once but I hear someone had some photographs.

The Texas Rangers. They didn’t even win a postseason series until this year. Hell, they hadn’t even won a playoff game at home, period, until this month, and that was in the second round. There ought to be a law against such a fast track to the World Series.

With the Giants all the aforementioned names come to mind. With the Rangers, I keep thinking of Billy Sample and Steve Buechele and Jeff Burroughs. I stop and try again and all I can come up with is Joe Lovitto and Jim Sundberg and Dean Palmer.

Yeah, I know they had the Rodriguezes Pudge and Alex, but they both beat it out of town.

This is the franchise that won 94 games in 1977, but it needed four managers to do it—all managing within a week of each other.

Frank Lucchesi was fired on June 21. Eddie Stanky was brought in and he managed one game on June 22 before he got homesick and quit. The Rangers then turned to coach Connie Ryan and he managed six games. Finally, Billy Hunter took over a week after Lucchesi’s last game and guided the Rangers for the final 93 games. The name plates were made from dry erase board.

Two of the Rangers’ first three managers were Ted Williams and Billy Martin. Whitey Herzog was in between. Three big names, and that was the problem—they were bigger names than their players.

Until the Rangers won the ALCS the other night, the proudest night in franchise history was the night Nolan Ryan beat the stuffing out of young whippersnapper Robin Ventura on the pitching mound, when Ventura charged Ryan after being hit in the back with one of Nolan’s fastballs.

Someone should have told Robin that he got lucky with a medium-speed fastball in the back; if Nolan wanted to, he could have killed him, right there in the batter’s box.

So it’s not a joke then? The Texas Rangers are really here to play in the World Series?

Ohhh…I get it. This year’s Series is going to bleed into November and they needed a warm weather state.

Read more MLB news on BleacherReport.com

With the Phillies’ postseason sweep of the Reds, I thought it was time to pay homage. I’ll start:

When it comes to Phillies pitching, there’s definitely something in the H20.

Mike Sweeney is so generous with the hugs, I applied for a job as bat-boy.

The Phils successfully steal so many bases, they gave away EPTs at the last game.

Wilson Valdez is such a great backup, I’m tempted to call him when my husband’s out of town.

A close examination of Chase Utley proves he definitely deserves the nickname “Chase Buttley.”

And on a scale of 1 to 10, Jayson Werth should just take his pants off.

Speaking of compliments, here’s some comments from the wonderful people who have endured my blogs and can write in complete sentences:

“Lots of mental pictures there, some I may not be able to shake.”

“You are by far one of the most self-deprecating columnists that I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading.”

Another said, “I haven’t seen so much sex intertwined with baseball since Meat Loaf’s, Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.”

And a fan recently told me, “You have the first R-rated Phillies blog ever!”

I feel so special. Just this morning my husband paid me another. He said, “No one’s ever stretched cleaning products like you.”

It’s true. My dust bunnies are so thick my cat caught one and knitted a sweater.

To save space I put my vacuum cleaner in storage.

My Swiffer dry rotted.

And my windows are so dirty people think I had them tinted.

Hey, it saves opening and closing those bothersome blinds.

That twisting action will give you carpel tunnel.

My husband and I learned that complimenting each other can bring a couple closer.

Watch. “Hey honey, I love how you grow hair on every part of your body.”

He says, “Yeah, but you do that better than me.”

See? We’re really getting the hang of this.

Let me try again. “Honey, if you drank more beer, I could stop stuffing my bra.”

He says, “If it weren’t for childbirth, you’d have no stretch marks to prove you have boobs.”

I know what you’re thinking—I’m spoiled.

Actually paying each other compliments was something we learned to do at a couples retreat. It wasn’t exactly what I expected to do there. I mean, it’s a bunch of couples connecting with other couples to improve their love lives.

Wait. My husband has something to say. “You’re thinking of swingers.”

“What are those?”

Hold on—he’s gotta whisper something.

Oh my gosh! I didn’t know that! Why wasn’t I informed?! I just thought of the next promotion at Citizens Bank Park—Swingers night.

Now that’s a way to connect with those with similar interests.

Gives new meaning to the term, “Rotation.”

Where was I? I’m so sorry. I have no idea how a post proclaiming my love for Jayson Werth ended up being about my marriage.

Trust me, there’s absolutely no segue there.

Now, I know I failed to coax Cliff Lee back but I think I’ll be effective running a campaign to keep Jayson here.

Hold on. My husband says, “Remember what happened when you were the Girl Scout Ambassador to the French Foreign Legion.”

That wasn’t my fault! I’m from Iowa. The only Frenchman I saw up to that point was Pepe Le Pew. And I thought the vapor that rose from his tail was musk.

Hey, maybe I could speak with a sexy French accent to tempt Jayson to stay:

“Hi, my name’th Flattith. I have a thong. It’th called, ‘There’th Thomething Up My Ath’.”

My husband says, “That’s not an accent, it’s a speech impediment.”

“I thought they were the same thing.”

He says, “You also thought ‘the clap’ was just another way to ‘high-five’.”

“No, I thought they were both signs that you’d had a good time.”

He says, “They are.”

Well, back to the drawing board.

They rejected my application for Phillies Phantasy Camp. Apparently “Tattooing Jayson Werth’s face on my ass,” isn’t an acceptable camp expectation.

Some people are so uptight I wonder how they fart.

I guess I’ll just accept that he’s leaving and find something else to dream about in the off season. I could always resort to Fantasy Baseball. Maybe I’ll join and share mine.

I heard they’ve even expanded to Pro Fantasy Rodeo. I could write about my night with that bull rider in Allerton, Iowa. Wait, he broke his collar bone. I told him to take two Viagra and call me in the morning.

Maybe I’ll write my memoir. I’ll call it something like: “Ode to the Phillieth from an Ath in the Making.”

Remember, capitalize first, last, and all important words.

My husband says the memoir will never sell. He thinks I need a good, strong shtick. The problem is small breasts just aren’t as marketable as they were before Kate Hudson got a boob job.

Hey, Hanes has a new t-shirt—they claim it lays flat no matter what.

I have a chest like that. I could be their poster girl.

Where’s my agent?

A better question is, “What’s an agent?”

My husband says, “It’s used for cleaning. That’s why you’re not familiar with it.”

“Hey, that wasn’t a compliment.”

He says he’s sorry. Now he’s trying to make it up to me. He says he’ll race me in a breast self-exam.

That’s no fun. He knows I’ll win.

Even if I give him a head start.

Well, I think I’ve caused enough carnage for one blog. Who knows? Maybe someone will leave me a really special comment.

My husband says, “Not possible. No one else knows you can eat hot dogs with your feet.”

Whoops, I guess they do now.

Now that’s a picture for Phanavision.

Hey, maybe that will entice Jayson to stay.

My husband says, “Right. Drop him a line that says, ‘Hi, my name’th Flattith. I eat hot dogth with my toeth and I’m flat like a Haneth t-thirt.’”

Hey, you never know—maybe he likes Daffy Duck.

It’th worth a try.

Thee you at the ballpark.

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter.

Read more MLB news on BleacherReport.com

A dream about spiders, cowboy boots, a DVD, a phone book, food, a tanning both or an iron have been the cause for an injury in the MLB. They weren’t too severe, but here are seven of the weirdest injuries ever to happen in the MLB. 

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When it comes to describing the emotions of a middle-aged woman who witnessed Roy Halladay’s once-in-a-lifetime postseason feat, I simply don’t have the words.

My husband says, “Add that to the other things you don’t have: boobs and couth.”

That might be true, but he wasn’t disappointed the day I proved I didn’t have man-parts either.

Take that Lady Gaga. She thought she was the only person required to prove she’s all woman. Fortunately she confirmed that before she was photographed wearing her meat suit.

Did you see where she placed her t-boner?

Where was I?

Oh yeah, the surreal world of Roy Halladay.

Nary a week has passed since my sweaty thighs slid off my season-ticket seat in my favorite steamy ballpark. Now on a cold, rainy night, with the tiny cast of William Penn looking on from atop the highest building in a city that’s delivered four straight division wins, Roy Halladay was haunted by the Ghosts of Torontos past and stayed the course on his career vision.

Two things were obvious: (1) he’s a man on a World Series mission and (2) I used the word “nary” and you didn’t even suspect that I’m British.

My husband says, “Nor did they suspect you’re funny.”

In any case, you might have noticed that the TBS commentators were not seasoned Phillies’ fans, especially when Brian Anderson referred to the rally towels as “white hankies.”

Like 46,411 fans suspected there’d be no toilet paper on hand.

I think at one point Brian even called the Phillies’ second baseman, Chase Ugly.

They obviously haven’t examined Chase’s backside through binoculars like me—from row three.

But TBS is what I was stuck with on that chilly Monday. As I sat cozy in the Jayson Werth blanket I received for the Mother’s Day giveaway in 2009, my son stood at my feet and asked to join me. I said, “Nothing comes between me and Jayson Werth.”

Literally. I was stripped clean underneath.

Okay, so clean underneath is an oxymoron. But my mind refuses to accept that the Phillies Phantasy Camp is not the Make-a-Wish Foundation for middle-aged women.

And a fantasy without Phillies is like a marriage without beer.

Early in the evening it was evident Roy brought his A-game while Edinson Volquez found a bargain basement deal on the jitters. After Shane Victorino’s second hit in as many innings, Volquez mouthed his frustration with the Spanish word that means, “I love you long time.”

Okay, maybe he threw the f-bomb.

Hey, is that Australian for beer?

Wait. I got that wrong. I think Foster’s is Australian for “I love you long time.” And if that’s the case, then by the transitive property that makes beer Australian for love.

I think beer actually means love in any language.

My husband says, “Beer is Australian for ‘I love you long time,’ especially when you fool a girl into proving she doesn’t have man-parts.”

Now that’s what I call “too much information.”

With Carlos Ruiz crouched down to catch, Men of a Certain Age all over the diamond, and me—the self-proclaimed winner of the best Phillies Phantasy, I feel honored to have been distracted from the softness of my Jayson Werth wrap by the phenomenon that helped win Game 1.

In the end, many things were evident:

I’d do Roy Halladay.

This morning the statue of William Penn was draped in a No. 34 jersey but was mysteriously missing his pants.

Sometime last night Roy Halladay was kissed by a teammate.

I swiped the tears of joy from my face with my “white hankie.”

And my husband wishes I was more like the cat—with an obsession for tending to a certain body part.

Now I’d love to read the Philadelphia Inquirer coverage of Roy’s gem but someone stole this morning’s edition. That’s okay. I imagine the paper will have one of those not-so-glamorous pitcher photos that show Roy with a contorted look on his face and his jersey swollen in the most embarrassing spots.

A lot like me on my honeymoon.

Although Roy’s postseason photo op was 11 years in the making, I’ll be honest—I wouldn’t spend more than a decade of my life preparing to eliminate the possibility of scoring altogether.

That’s what marriage is for.

But in that time, he developed the focus of a warrior. The Reds tried everything to throw him off: stepping out of the box, drawing pitches, coming at him early, and I think I saw one guy wink. But Doc operated like a pitching machine.

I heard Dusty Baker wants him checked for bionic parts.

So we celebrate one Roy and anticipate the game two start of the other, hoping they perform like clones. But like those twins in college, I bet I could find a way to tell them apart.

Did you know when the Braves clinched the National League wild card spot, REO Speedwagon played the postgame show at Turner Field? Why didn’t Citizens Bank Park ever book them? I’ll have to do something about this and flashing someone at a high level is not out of the question. I just hope they have their binoculars handy.

I wonder if they make actual boob-enhancing glasses.

My husband says, “Yeah, it’s called beer.”

Well, he would know.

See you at the ballpark.

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.
Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter.

Read more MLB news on BleacherReport.com

I am the George Steinbrenner Plaque.

I am 760 pounds of solid bronze living in my new digs in Monument Park.  I’m seven feet wide, wider than CC Sabathia is tall. And I’m five feet tall, taller than CC Sabathia is wide.

I dwarf all these other plaques around me of famous Yankees.  Because I am the Boss.  People walk by and look my way and say, “God, look at the size of that plaque.”  It’s 35 square feet of STEINBRENNER! 

When I say I am bronze, I mean it.  I’m the color all these young muscle builders at the beach yearn to be. 

Hey you, Joe DiMaggio plaque!  How do you like ME now that I’m next door to you?  Are you able to get a Mr. Coffee out here, Mr. Joe DiMaggio plaque?  Does the ghost of Marilyn Monroe float by and say, “That’s my Joe’s plaque?”

Hey you, Babe Ruth plaque!  Mr. Bambino, I’m in your house now.  Aren’t you going to look my way?  What’s the matter, Babe? You think I don’t belong here with all the Yankee greats because I didn’t play ball?  I BUILT this new stadium; I mean GEORGE STEINBRENNER built this stadium.  I’m his plaque.  I belong. 

Hey kid, I see you looking at the Mickey Mantle plaque.  Why don’t you come over here and look at me?  Am I too big for you?  Yeah, get your Dad, have him come over here.  Read ME!  

Why does your Dad say my coat looks crumpled?  That’s the way they do a plaque, kid.  If my coat were smooth, it wouldn’t be interesting. 

Ask your Dad who was responsible for building this new stadium.  See that little girl over there?  She’s cute, huh?  Maybe she’ll come look at me…hang around, kid. 

The sun is just starting to shine in my direction.  Patina, kid!!!  Look at the richness of my bronze.  Check out the depth of me. That, kid, is what you call your bas-relief.  No, wait a minute, it’s actually your high relief.  Boss gets the HIGH relief.    Not all cast bronze plaques get this much relief.  Only the important ones.

I got so much relief I’m almost a statue. Pigeons have tried to land on my shoulder. Pigeons!   And check out my border; that’s one inch thick, kid.  Go ahead, you can touch it. You can’t hurt me, because I’m made of BRONZE.  Big Bronze in the Bronx. He’s the Bronx Bomber. I’m the Bronze Bomber. Get it, kid?

Hey, Mickey’s Plaque, did you see the kid checking me out?  He’s looking at you and you weigh 120 pounds!  I weigh 760 pounds.  Do you hear that, Mickey’s plaque?  You weigh less than Pee Wee Reese.  You weigh less than Wee Willie Keeler.  You guys are all shrimp plaques.  You were good ball players, but your plaques are shrimps.

Hey kid. Be sure to tell your friends to take a tour. Tell them, if they want to see the most gigantous, beautiful plaque in the world, come out here.  Thanks, kid.

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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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Manuella Being Manuella  

Manny Ramirez was suspended from baseball for using hCG (human chorionic gonadotropin), a women’s fertility drug which helps steroid users restart testosterone production when they come off a steroid cycle.

Many suspect, because of the hCG, Manny was using steroids. However, we’ve heard a different, possibly ridiculous theory:  the drug is also used in the hormonal treatment for pre-transsexuals.

Could it be? Could the most macho man in baseball decide he no longer wished to be a “he?” Could the most macho man in baseball decide he’s tired of being a “Manny?”

Possible theory: you carry that name all your life—Manny, Manny, Manny—and one day you wake up and wonder what would it be like to be Margarita or Manuella?  What would it be like not to have a penis?

“Does my butt look big in this uniform?”

Crazy theory, right? No possible way Manny might be exhibiting the traits of a pre-transy. Manny never gets moody, right? No, never! You’ll never find Manny decide he does not want to run out a base hit. “Well, today, I just did not feel like running.” Manny would never do that.

It’s a crazy theory. Does Manny like to wear his hair long like Jennifer Lopez? Of course not!

Does Manny ever say he doesn’t want to play because “Manny wants to clear his head?”

Clear his head? Looking for an epiphany like Julia Roberts in “Eat. Pray. Love?”  No, not the most macho man in baseball! Manny would never do that. 

What if a teammate hurt his leg, and it was Manny’s day off, and the manager came to Manny and asked if he would play? Manny would never say “No, I don’t feel like it.” See, Manny’s not a pre-transy.

Manny would never wear earrings like a girl, and then insist the entire team scour the third base area looking for a missing diamond stud.  That’s not Manny.

Let’s go back to the clubhouse. We’re pretty sure Manny’s no transy in a training bra.

Manny, we’re checking out a theory. We have a few questions:

“The movie ‘Eat, Pray, Love.’” says Manny being Manny. “Julia Roberts, she downs a load of carbs, doesn’t gain a pound. Her figure… carumba. How does she do it?”

Manny, ummm, we’re trying to figure…

“Have you tried J-Lo’s new Glow perfume?” asks Manny, being Manny. “I like it much better than Deseo. Too much jasmine in Deseo.”

Manny, there are times, ummm, when they…

“Look in this mirror!” says Manny, “Ozzie wants me to trim my dreads. I’m thinking down to here… or here. What do you think? Here… or here?”

Manny, you keep changing locations, new homes, selling your condos, what’s that about?

“A guy needs a change of scenery. I love to decorate. Is that a crime? Now I’m working with purples and greens. Do you like paisley?”

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The Florida Marlins have publicly stated that whatever media sources are reporting a brawl during their game last night are false. Major League Baseball says that since there were no fans at the Marlins game last night, there are no witnesses to prove otherwise. 

The Marlins have become synonymous with having a very low attendance average. On television, there are not any fans in the seats and thus a ton of orange seats are left exposed to the cameras. Last night was no exception. 

When Nyjer Morgan charged the mound last night, both benches were cleared and just about everyone on both teams were involved in the brawl. But it seems like those were the only people around to see what happened. 

You may ask what about the television cameras and the live broadcast of the game? Well, according to Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria, he says that what was seen on television was a staged commercial. It was all a fake advertisement during the inning. 

It doesn’t seem to add up even in the Commissioner’s office. Bud Selig has refused to comment on what “reportedly” went down in Miami.

The eight game suspension to Nyjer Morgan issued today was due to the inappropriate language used in the commercial. Baseball officials are still looking for the possible one fan in attendance at the Marlins vs. Nationals game. The fan holds the key testimony as to what really occurred on the Thursday night in Miami. 

Looks like this is where having fans of your team actually comes in handy! Sadly, it doesn’t seem like there is such thing as a Florida Marlins fan. 

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