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.
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