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Philadelphia Phillies Second Annual Bucket List—From a Babe’s Take

As the title says, this is my second annual bucket list—Phillies style. I hate the redundancy of writing a totally self-explanatory title and then reaffirming the topic in my first sentence but with those darn search engines constantly looking for articles with relevance, I’m already at a disadvantage.

When it comes to blogging about baseball, I’m the master at having nothing relevant to say.

And I’ve proved that for two whole paragraphs.

First, I should let you know that unlike most bucket lists, mine isn’t composed of death-defying acts of irrationality like white water rafting. Hell, if I wanted to be tossed about by a current I’d call my husband in on the waterbed. Besides, I don’t need to do something daring—I got married. I don’t need another adventure to end with, “What the hell was I thinking?”

Now, on my first bucket list, I gave considerable thought to the organization—I thought about bullets or numbers or an alphabetical arrangement. I even tried little Shane Victorino silhouettes but I couldn’t get them to stand still. So eventually I settled for the rant. Not only is it my favorite form of communication, it’s the least effective one.

Anyway, I’m hoping you enjoy this more than your annual pap smear or your prostate check (although I might be discriminating against single people when I say that).

Here goes:

Until the day I die, I pledge to boldly go where middle-aged women have all gone before—into the pants of major league players. And to the dismay of many, the thoughts in my mind will flow senselessly through my computer keypad.

Yes, I still use a pc. No, I don’t have an iPad. That’s what I do to my bra.

I give a whole new meaning to the question, “Are those really yours?”

Sorry, I got off track.

Let’s try again:

I want a bladder that doesn’t leak when I sneeze.

I want a wrinkle cream that makes me look like a Hollywood hottie but not someone Hugh Hefner would boink.

I want Philly weather to go straight from fall to spring.

I want my cat to puke in a designated area.

I want my dog to find a way to tend to his genitalia before he comes to bed.

I want my husband to find a way to do that too.

I want to prove that Shane Victorino is a descendant of the Mexican jumping bean.

I want someone to find a way to keep Justin Bieber cute and little, just like a kitten.

I want the next Phillies charity event to have a Raul Ibanez kissing booth.

I want a Cliff Lee blowup doll giveaway at Citizens Bank Park (anatomically correct, of course).

I want spell check to be nominated for sainthood.

I want Carlos Ruiz to catch the next perfect game.

I want my husband to stop telling people that my remorse over Jayson Werth leaving is a passing phase.

I want to outlaw pimples, menstrual cramps, puking on people at games, throwing stuff at each other and mean people.

I want a Phillies t-shirt with built in boobs. They could come in three sizes: small ball, pitcher’s mound and grand slam.

I want sex to come in different sizes too.

Wait, it already does.

I want hair styles to come in a spray can.

I want Brad Lidge to pitch a slider so nasty they call it “The Bitch.”

I want to be carded again.

I want chocolate to be declared a food group. I also want someone to make it the official food group of the Phillies. Then I want it nominated for sainthood.

I want Charlie Manuel to live forever.

I want it to snow only when it’s convenient for me—like in a snow globe.

I want people to quit wondering who the fifth man in the rotation will be. Like at my house, we’ll just call him, “Pizza Night.”

I want people to stop thinking I’m making a funny face when I’m not.

I want forms to stop asking me if I’m male or female and I want traffic cops to stop that too.

And now that Cliff Lee is back I want to act like a typical woman and find something else to whine about.

That might take some time. Then again, maybe not. Like I often say to my husband, “I thought that would take longer.”

Most of all I want a guaranteed World Series win. I want to parade down Broad Street, I want Chase Utley to throw the f-bomb to fire up all those hypocrites who use it but don’t want their kids to hear it from someone else, and I still want Kevin Costner to give me a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts three days.

With those new stalker laws that last one might be tough. I sure hope they’re lenient on stalkers in heaven because when I die, I’m hunting down Harry Kalas and Robin Roberts. That might entail a small chase and some jail time but sooner or later they’ll have to talk to me. It’s not like we won’t have eternity.

Hey, is it a copyright infringement to have Chase Utley’s butt engraved on your tombstone? And is it a violation to spy on the Phillies locker room when you’re a ghost? It won’t be near as haunting as seeing me in person.

Well, that’s my bucket list. You might be thinking it more closely resembles the one they give you when you’re about to puke; you also might say exactly what my husband says—she might look funny but she’s not. But you can’t argue that the 2011 Phillies’ rotation will be an amazing fan experience. It might not be the best rotation ever but it’s here and it’s now.

And to the dismay of many, so am I.

See you at the ballpark.


Copyright 2011 Flattish Poe all rights reserved

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Oh Come All Lee Faithful, Joyful And… Well, You Get The Point

I’ll be honest. I don’t watch postseason trades. I find them as futile as foreplay after forty or light beer chasers. But when I read that the phenomenal uniform philler-outer, Jayson Werth, had been signed by a division rival, I burned my bra in defiance.

Then I just had to buy a new one. That’s when I made an important discovery:

Not everything expands when it’s cold.

In this era of disclaimers, stipulations, and legal litigation, let me make one thing vividly clear:

I’d still do Jayson Werth.

But some people thought I’d take the news hard.

Hard? Hell, at least he didn’t run up the phone bill and stick my toothbrush someplace dreary when he left. Besides, who can blame him? Like my husband said, “It’s just a man taking care of his family.”

Considering a few years ago he questioned whether he’d ever play ball again, I take my hat off to him.

Okay, maybe a few other pieces of clothing too.

And the Nationals: Was it an accident that a team hoping to fill its stands with fans nabbed one of the sexiest players in baseball? I think not.

Was it a quirk that those new stalker laws went into effect shortly after I became a Phillies fan?

Nothing’s a coincidence.

Think of t-shirt sales alone. Nat fans are already stuffing their bras to embellish Jayson’s 28 on their chests (or like me, the 28 around my chest.)

Hey, aren’t there plans for a high-speed train from Philadelphia to DC?

Like my friend, Dave, said, “Jayson Werth is getting paid in Trident Layers.” I told him, “I’m one of them.”

So last week’s headline read: “Phils Have Hole to Fill as Werth Signs With Nats.”

Yeah, so did I.

This week’s is, “Hole Wasn’t as Big as We Thought.”

Heard that before.

There’s one major reason the Phillies signed Cliff Lee: So my husband wouldn’t have to hear me whine.

Cross that one off my bucket list, and my Christmas list, my delusional fantasy baseball list, my most wanted list, my Amazon wish list, and my own personal to “do” list.

Tell the truth: How many of you tried to redeem American Express points for him?

And why are we so obsessed with the one who compLEEtes me?

The behind-the-back catch.

A man that can do it with a hand tied behind his back is an odds-on favorite for the feline fans.

Whoops, did I just say feline?

I’m sorry. I was dreaming of Cliff Lee reaching every part of my body with his tongue.

From his mound.

I have no idea what that means.

So, while fans ponder which slot in the rotation he’ll master or if the 9-5 odds of the Phils winning the World Series will waiver, I wonder about the important stuff:

What month will he get in the new Phillies calendar?

And he’s getting Ruben Amaro Jr’s old number: 33.

Hey, that’s my lucky number. Hold on, I think that’s my IQ.

Wait, what’s an IQ?

Actually I don’t care what number he gets just so it’s ironed on his uniform in Braille.

Then it won’t be a violation to fondle him.

I really need to start that petition for women umpires.

Or cheerleaders.

Or just a block of seats for middle-aged perverts.

By Jayson leaving Philly for more and Cliff coming back for less, I don’t think Ruben has to worry about dissent in the stands.

And look on the bright side—I can still flash Jayson 18 times next season.

Hey, don’t scowl at me—I have a permit for that. I petitioned the court and called it “freedom of expression.” And they bought it because they agreed—there aren’t many ways I can prove I’m a girl.

And since I have a licentious license I told my husband for this year’s Christmas card we should flash the camera, then use the caption “Merry Titsmas.”

He answered with a new concept in grammar: The exclamation fart.

That means he doesn’t like it.

Or my casserole was a little rich.

So, with 2010 drawing to close, I’d like to serve up my graciousness for three things:

Cliff Lee is back.

If I miss Jayson, he’s only 150 miles away.

And my husband can still make me fart when he makes me laugh.


Let me proclaim my joy another way:

Oh Christmas Lee, oh Christmas Lee

How lovely are your britches.

In the meantime, while I wait to see if the Phillies sign another great butt, I’ll iron my pinstriped thong and wear it close to the part of me my husband truly cherishes.

Like he says, “At least it’ll keep something else from crawling up there.”

Happy Halladay everyone.

See you at the ballpark.


PS. Happy birthday, Dad.


Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved

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MLB Playoffs: My Dad Said, ‘Don’t Pick on the Heavy Guys.’

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.

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I Know How To Get Jayson Werth To Stay—And It’s Legal…Somewhere

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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Roy Halladay Blanked the Cincinnati Reds—Is That a Double Entredre?

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.

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Mommas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Sports Writers

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 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 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? 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.

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Philadelphia Phillies: Speak Softly and Hope for a Big Stick (Satire)

I woke up with a stiff neck. The problem is that it lasted more than four hours.

For a second, I thought my husband slipped me some Viagra.

Someone definitely slipped the Phillies something. They’ve taken the lead in the wild-card race and won twenty or so of their last bunch of games.

That was helpful information, wasn’t it? I would’ve looked up the facts but that interferes with worthwhile stuff like plucking chest hairs in my magnifying mirror so I can finally look at my breasts and see 36 double dees.

Or watching my dog sniff the cat’s butt for the zillionth time to ensure it’s the same pet he’s lived with for six years.

I named my dog Brett Farve—he’s never sure.

But I’m sure of one thing: the Phils looked great when we saw them in game one of the series against San Francisco.

A guy with a huge cranium and his totally bald friend who was wearing sunglasses on the back of his head took their seats between the plate and me. I felt like I was staring at Vin Diesel.

Then music started. I thought I heard a flute played by someone way too happy so I waited for the next break to confirm. Sure enough my husband turned to me and said, “It’s either merry music night or Irish Heritage Day.”

I’m Irish—I understand the connection. I’m living proof that everything in Ireland was conceived over whiskey.  I think there’s even a sheep joke in there somewhere. And someday someone will question the tradition of kissing a stone named for bullshit.

Pat Burrell was back. He whacked a two-run homer in his first at-bat to distract from the fact that “snug” is how he now likes to wear his pants.

Just another reason to question his move to the bay area.

As I scanned the fielders with my binoculars, I noticed that all the Giants’ pants seemed a little clingy, raising only more questions.

Like how that new Victoria’s Secret bra works. It claims it remembers your curves. I don’t want a bra that remembers my curves, I want one that fakes some.

You know, they asked Sarah Palin if she had breast implants. My friend Jimi said she was trying to avoid the flat tax.

Just once I wish someone would ask me if I got a boob job. My husband says I should stick with the magnifying mirror. Let me give it a try. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, can I buy boobies at the mall?”

No answer. Just like talking to my husband, I don’t know if that’s a “yes” or a “no.”

So let’s talk shop.

Phillies pitcher Ryan Madson—like the emperor—has found his groove. I just wish he’d do it without clothes.

Roy Oswalt’s dead arm has found life. I’m now guaranteed the big O every five games whether or not I have a headache.

In game two against the Giants, Jimmy Rollins was 3 for 5, slammed a three-run homer, almost hit for the cycle, stole three bases, and scored twice. Like my name on the bathroom wall, Fanavision didn’t have room to list all his accomplishments.

Charlie Manuel has used his 1,380,956th lineup this season. I’m exaggerating. That’s what people do when they catch a scrawny fish or marry a short guy.

I think Pablo Sandoval got even bigger between games one and two. Or maybe the camera adds ten pounds a game.

Jayson Werth didn’t make the cover of Sports Illustrated but he’s somewhere in the center. The problem is he’s fully dressed. It’s not even a scratch and sniff.

Citizens Bank Park celebrated its 99th consecutive sellout. That’s impressive. I have yet to make it through that many bottles of beer on the wall.

Chase Utley returned from the DL and got a standing ovation. My sister gets those—when she walks into Neiman-Marcus.

And I see pistachios are now being sold at Citizens Bank Park. They’re tasty, but the pack is small and the price is high. I can’t pay a dollar a nut. The two I’m familiar with aren’t even worth that.

If they’re trying to sell healthier snacks they might want to reconsider training their sales force. A girl walked by in the sixth inning selling “postichios.”

I almost bought a pack to see what a gay nut tastes like.

On that note, if you’re a transvestite dressed as Lady Gaga, are you really a boy or a girl?

At one point in the game, the two guys in front of us left their seats. Two cute, young, shapely, blond squatters took their place, giggling with delight at upgrading their view. (Like a center field seat is so much closer. Where were they sitting, New Jersey?)

An inning later, the guys returned; Mr. Cranium led the way. I was curious to hear what a tall, handsome season ticket holder with a tray full of food, beer bottles tucked between the fingers of one hand, and no wedding band would say to a sweet pair of co-eds hoping to share.

How ‘bout, “You’re in my seat.”

I think he’s a closet Giants fan.

Celtic music started to play and the Phanatic jumped onto the Phillies dugout accompanied by a line of performers. My son said, “Look mom, it’s Lord of the Prance.”

“That’s Lord of the Dance.”

My husband said, “When did Pat Burrell’s pants get so tight?”

Then the vendor shuffled by, “Hey, get your ‘postichios’ here!”

Welcome to Irish Heritage Day.

See you at the ballpark.


Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

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Ode To Carlos Ruiz or If It Weren’t for Those New Stalker Laws


This morning I was greeted by a hair ball, a pet puke, and an offensive odor.

Speaking of offensive, I should blog. I’ll start by singing the accolades of my favorite major league catcher.

Wait, my husband says it’s too early in the day for me to sing. Actually, he says there’s never a reason for it.

I’ll stick with typing and bad poetry.

Carlos Ruiz is my half-pint hero. He may be small but he’s really six foot six inches of heart packed into two enormous thighs.

I’ve sometimes used that same excuse myself. Like I say, “Does this ass make my pants look big?”

Now, hindsight might be 20/20—and often makes experts out of liars, but I’ve posted a few blogs vying for the attention someone else deserves that prove I’ve loved Chooch from afar (only because of those new stalker laws).

Last May, I even penned some cheesy poetry on his behalf and because my blogs aren’t worth reading the first time, let alone worthy of review, I’ll copy and paste it here (for your convenience):

Ode to Carlos

The guy behind home plate

Hails from another place

Van Halen praised it in a song

Our hero’s home’s in Panama

I’m gonna have that tattooed on my behind.

Trust me, there’s plenty of room.

Honey, does this tattoo make my pants look ass?

When it comes to another player I adore, I’ve often referred to what he does best as The Placido Effect. That’s what happens to me when Polanco wears pinstripes. That guy makes me so breathless I get a side-ache.

Besides his bald head looks like a bowling ball. And I have a thing for bowlers. There’s just something about running my fingers over those smooth ceramic balls that makes me sweat.

I guess that’s why they have those little blowers.

Hold on, my son has a question: “Why does Jayson Werth grow a beard and then shave it off?”

“Because he can,” I said.

My husband looked at him and said, “It’s the same excuse your mom uses.”

Speaking of excuses, the new guy on the block makes none. Mike Sweeney aka Sweeney Mike, cut up the Mets in game one. And when he was tagged “Chevrolet Player of the Game,” he gave credit where credit was due: “Brad Lidge came in and closed the door—as always.”

My husband said, “Sweeney’s played a lot of ball—he hasn’t seen a lot of ball.”

And what’s up with Cole Hamels? It’s like he’s being punked. He had eight no decisions coming into his eighth loss and I don’t know how many of those were due to lack of run support.

I have an underwire from Victoria’s Secret that gives me more support than that.

My husband says nothing gives me that much support.

Hey, at least my boobs make other girls’ boobs look big.

So I’m not a busty woman. Like I always say, I’m Irish—I’m not even human.

In any case, the Phils can’t win ‘em all. If they did that with three guys missing from the lineup, it’d give Ruben Amaro, Jr. a complex—if he doesn’t already have one. He’s been chastised for trading away prospects to get what he could have had in the first place—three top notch pitchers, including one who compLEEtes me.

As a result, Cliff Lee now has some tough Texas company. His mound-mate, Dustin Nippert, was hit in the head by a line drive but stood up simply rubbing his owie.

I’m not saying he’s hard-headed but the ball deflected off his skull and landed in left field. It was almost caught by the outfielder. That’d been a 1-7 putout.

I’ll bet that guy never gets brainfreeze.

Is brainfreeze one word or two? I know, I’ll consult the fictionary.

They say everything’s bigger in Texas. Thank God it didn’t hit him in the crotch. The ball would have landed in the seats. That would’ve made one hell of a souvenir. I wonder if you could get that authenticated. They’d call it an HBD. That’s hit-by…

Well, you get the point.

My husband says I have to wrap this up. He’s hungry and wants to eat at this new place.

Hold on. “Honey, I don’t know if I want to eat at a place called The Eulogy. Are you trying to tell me something?”

He said, “You’re Irish. What do you have to lose?”

He’s lucky he’s a bowler.

See you at the ballpark.


Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

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Philadelphia Phillies: The Placido Polanco Effect


So, I’m watching TV waiting for these people to get eaten by sharks when a thought crosses my mind: They can’t get eaten—they’re telling the story.

But wait. I can only see them from the neck up. Perhaps someone lost a limb.

There is hope.

There is hope for a pennant too.

That same “Throw them to the sharks” mentally is what Phillies fans are notorious for, so will they sigh with content at two straight four-game sweeps at home or will they expect the team to go in for the kill?

I’m not suggesting the Phillies will have to claw and scrape their way to the top of the division but it sure is nice to attain something with the effort the team has extended lately.

Take Ryan Howard for instance. He’s my vote for hardest working first baseman in America. It’s easy to observe his greatness, especially when he’s playing opposite Jason Giambi. Ryan was sliding and diving and working so hard he looked like he was dipped in chocolate sprinkles.

Someone should lick him off.

I’m sorry, I meant clean him off.

Then there’s Placido Polanco. He’s my vote for greatest spaz at third base. And now he’s playing Chase Utley quite well at second. Polly rules the Phillie Playmate of the Week pinup in my head and excites me so that I extend to him my highest rating yet—.

Wait, my husband says I can’t say that on public access. Let’s just call the third baseman my own Steely Dan.

Jimmy Rollins is back as the renewed leadoff hitter, Shane Victorino is stealing bases so fast I had to check to see if I still had my pants, and the Jayson Werth signs are back. Whatever Greg Gross is giving out, I’m sure it’s a secret and illegal and I want some.

Now that the lineup is hitting, Ruben Amaro, Jr can turn his attention to pitchers not named Hamels or Halladay. I hate to see him scrape the bank account dry but it’s not like he hasn’t tried some insiders.

We’ve seen Antonio Bastardo, Sergio Escalona, and I even had a dream that Brett Myers was back. But they were all gone by sunup.

Then there’s Scott Mathieson: He’s had more elbow surgeries than he has elbows. At this point why wouldn’t he just have them remove those ligaments altogether. Then he could be like RA Dickey, throw the elusive knuckleball, and set the record for most wild pitches in an inning.

Or he could find a side job as a contortionist. Either way, he’s wowing people.

Andrew Carpenter is a name that comes and goes like Hugh Hefner’s wives.

And who the hell is Vance Worley? He was gone before I could pull up the 25 man roster that bore his name. Now he’s mentioned as a candidate for a trade. It’s like the bullpen’s in a game of hide and seek.

Not long ago the Phils had a guy named Dane Sardinha catching pitches from the unknown Mike Zagurski.

Did you know Zagurski is Polish for “No neck?”

I thought not.

Did you know Dane is from Hawaii and his name rhymes with Shane so he and Victorino are neighbors?

Okay, maybe not. That was judgmental of me. It’s like saying since Pamela Anderson and I both have breasts we must be equally as buoyant.

We all know there’s no comparison. She’s like her own personal life vest. Well, unless she gets deflated. Unlike a guy, there’s nothing Viagra can do for her.

Men have all the options. They virtually pull up to the pharmaceutical air compressor when it’s honky-tonk time while girls have to wear their sex appeal around like a BabyBjörn.

Okay, maybe baby Björns are just what mine look like.

Wait, I’m completely off the subject. Where were we?

I know, things that interest me the most: sweaty men in uniform not married to me.

See, if I put it that way, my husband can’t put on a fancy hat, stand in the sun for a second, and think he has a chance without Tequila. I tell him that’s why The Village People haven’t staged a comeback—like a Charlie Manuel pinup, I think it’s illegal.

Like me going for a swim at the Playboy mansion. I can pay my way into the public pool but a fake bunny tattoo doesn’t get me into Hugh’s place even with my A-cup discount.

Besides childbirth has left me a little leaky—plus my stream now pulls to the right. If Pamela and I were in the pool together I’d have to stand to her left when I have to sneeze, especially if Hugh has that blue indicator in the pool.

I’m like a peeing ventriloquist.

I’m sorry. My husband says that’s too much information.

Speaking of my beau, he’s now following my blogging progress online. He said, “Dolly Pardon has 674-some thousand followers and you have 56. There are two reasons for that and both of them are holding up her blouse.”

What’s he saying—I need a strap-on chest?

Maybe I need a BigMamma Björn.

My husband says I need more help than that. Even the sharks won’t come for me.

That’s because they know I pee in the pool.

I’m done now.

See you at the ballpark.


Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.


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NL East Race: The Devil Wears Prado

Things have certainly not been going well. It might be the Year of the Pitcher somewhere, but not in Philadelphia.

I’m sorry. Perhaps that wasn’t supportive. Let’s petition to focus only the positives.

I’ll start: Jimmy Rollins is the current active leader in consecutive steals, Placido Polanco is back from the DL with his team-leading batting average, and Ryan Howard leads the league in RBI.

Jayson Werth, however, has developed an unexplained aversion for touching his bat to the ball.

Someone should tell him it won’t make you blind.

Here’s another petition: stop the Tweet-volume graphs on the game recaps. There’s nothing more irrelevant to the game. It’s no secret that the volume of twits tweeting about the Phils is directly proportional to stuff happening during the game.

It’s just as circumstantial as the level of disgust rising in my house when my husband uses the john.

It’s not rocket science.

Supposedly things are so bad people are petitioning to get Pat Burrell back.

Fat chance. He feels right at home peeking over at old teammate, Aaron Rowand, in center field in San Francisco. But Pat’s move to the Bay Area has people wondering about those rumors that he got married—to a girl.

Or maybe I just made that up.

Now the Phillies have three more chances to turn it around against the newly crowned NL Central kings fresh off their six game winning streak.

Perhaps under the lovely shiny arch the Phils will figure out why the early season hitting explosion had an expiration date. Like a Viagra pill for batters, maybe they’ll find something that makes a big, stout piece of wood more effective.

How ‘bout putting Marisa Miller on the mound?

Or just paint her on the center field wall?

Now, you usually only have to glance at stats to tell when a team stinks, but in this case it makes no sense. The Phillies’ lineup leads the division in runs, home runs, RBI, total bases, slugging percentage, intentional walks, extra base hits, and fielding percentage.

They also lead in stolen base percentage because they think like I do: If you don’t steal, you won’t get caught.

And Jayson Werth leads the team with 92 strikeouts—most of which he’s earned since the All-Star break.

That might seem like a rather dubious honor but other players who’ve appeared on the annual “Special K” list are: Babe Ruth, Mickie Mantle, Reggie Jackson, Michael Schmidt, Sammy Sosa, Jim Thome, Adam Dunn, and Ryan Howard—not long before he signed a bank breaking contract.

It’s also possible that those other guys led their league in another important hitting category that Jayson’s failed to conquer. I’d love to investigate this further but I have dishes to do, a cat box to clean, and re-runs of Hawaii Five-O on at three.

Besides we’re staying positive: The Phillies are a better second half team.

The only reason that’s a scary statement is because the current first place team, Atlanta, leads the division in only one stat: on-base percentage. They’re like the Rudolph Valentinos of the NL East. They could sweet talk a girl out of her pants with a timely hit, a little hustle, and enduring patience.

Matter of fact, for their next stadium giveaway they’re handing out EPTs.

Even without extraordinary stats, they’re contenders. And trading off the slacking Yunel Escobar for the slugging Alex Gonzalez is a sure indication that they know this. As long as Brian McCann is the McMan, Chipper Jones continues to take his retirement advice from Brett Favre, and the Mets find the formula to forego flunking late in the season, it’s going to be a tough semester.

So while the Phillies search for the MLB equivalent of the Bunsen burner, I looked for the magic stat that could determine who the next division champ would be. As much as I tried to sway my decision to Philadelphia, the only conclusion I’ve come to is this: The devil wears Prado.

Martin Prado is on course to having a career year. He leads Atlanta in endurance and studliness, and was one of five Braves who made Charlie Manuel’s All-Star roster even though the skipper couldn’t say his name.

Hey, five team members on one All-Star roster? Doesn’t that sound like the 2009 Phillies?

I hate to say it, but if I’ve struck stat gold, Phillies fans might have to settle for good baseball, sexy facial hair, and appealing camera angles this year. Diehards should be asking themselves if they can survive a season unadorned by pennants or trophies or even postseason TV.

Hey, if it’s any consolation, I heard Kim Kardashian has decided to just appear naked in her next season on E!. And Survivor is having a reunion—only breasts and penises are scheduled to compete.

Or maybe I just made that up.

Stay positive.

See you at the ballpark.


Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.


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