November 5, 2012

When Porn Flies

by Cindy Falteich

According to the official Phillies calendar, the season ended on October 3rd. Normally that’s just a guideline for when the season could end if you’re not a Phillies fan. But this year? Well, let’s just say I know how those Mayans feel.

Contrary to popular belief, the world didn't end on October 3rd. Actually it’s supposed to end on my birthday this year. How ironic that the one good reason to celebrate me for eternity is the world coming to an end.

It also means that the last Phillies game against the Nationals might have been the last Phillies game ever!

Maybe this is my last Phillies blog ever! If that’s the case, there’s reason enough for many to celebrate. Especially those crabby guys on Bleacher Report. It also means I have a lot of players to cover.


Where to start?

I know where it ended. When the Phils lost any chance of a playoff birth by sucking in Houston. I tried my best to sit back and enjoy the last nine innings of the year because—look on the bright side—it was the last possible loss.

Then an interesting thing happened. The bona fide, legitimate, undeniable National League wild card winner, the Atlanta Braves, had to play the consolation team for an actual playoff spot.

Whose idea was that? “Hey, let’s have the indubitable wild card victor play the first loser in a death match for instant elimination!”

What is this Hunger Ballgames? In the ninth inning of that tear jerker, Chipper Jones was a hit away from being the next Katniss Everdeen. Until somebody screwed with the playing field.

Let’s just say there’ll never be a pin-up calendar of MLB umpires.

Although Pin the Tail on the Ump is quite popular in many clubhouses.

My dad was wild. He’s a gray-haired, shanty Irish version of Clark Kent but when Atlanta was eliminated by a shot in the dark, he was hot. It didn’t help that Shane Victorino and Hunter Pence were traded mid season. When the shock of that wore off, he called me to say, “Did Amaro wake up and think, ‘Let’s just trade the two guys who hustle the most?’”

Was he drunk?

To that point in time, my dad wasn’t counting the Phillies out of the postseason. At his age, he’s seen stinkier underdogs come out smelling like a rose. But after the trades, I wondered if Ruben Amaro, Jr. should be reminded that his fans filled Citizens Bank Park for like 250 consecutive sellouts and now they think he smells like poo.

Then I saw a stat—one of those that reminded me that shedding salary takes its toll: “The purchase of Phillies-related products has declined by 60 percent."

To pad the pain they continued, “Even at the ballpark, Phils officials conceded they're selling less of practically everything but the quirky Phanatic caps and Carlos Ruiz merchandise.”

I have an idea. How about a quirky Carlos Ruiz cap? One where he looks like he’s sitting on my head.

Am I the only one who thinks the MLB channel is like daytime porn?

I wonder if apparel sales are why the Phillies took the $5 million option on Ruiz for 2013. They should give Carlos his own merchandise table at the ballpark. Like a rock star. Or at least give him tight leggings and a groupie.

Does this mean I can flash him my breasts?

My husband says, “Nobody can tell what they are.”

What if I flash them in Spanish?

I, for one, would like to have some input when it comes to Ruiz apparel. I vote to have Carlos wear as little as possible. 

I love a man with an accent who’s equipped with protective armor and is the defender of home plate. He’s like the Thor of my own little baseball fantasies.

Fantasies are even better when you mistake hot flashes for horniness.

Hey, don’t judge me! The world’s about to end and I’m way behind on my Phil-itically incorrect behavior. And although many people claim to have experienced what the afterlife is like, no one has ever confirmed that Anthony Weiner was guided by angels.

I still have to look up the spelling of his name. I just can’t remember that it’s ‘i’ before ‘e’ except after weenie. I wish there was a catchy song to remember it by. Maybe I’ll work on one. 

Oh, that politician has a last name that’s really hard to spell.
A tasty wiener and his wang have both been known to swell.
Oh, the next time that he strokes his schlong
Hope he recalls where it belongs
Cyberspace is not the place for instagrams from P-R hell.

Remember, Anthony, it’s pubic hair, not public hair.

In heaven I bet white is the new dirty.

Did I tell you I believe Mormons created Viagra?

I could be wrong. If they did, the disclaimer would probably go something like this: “If you experience an erection that last more than four wives…”

My husband says, “…call your doctor and tell her to bring more condoms.”

Mormons must love baseball. Like me, they prefer things that come in threesomes. 

Does that make me Mormon? I’ve always wanted my own wife. 

My husband can’t even speak right now.

Of everything that happened this season, the thing that hurt the most was Juan Pierre’s move to the bench. 

He has a lifetime .300 average and 30 steals for the umpteenth time in his career. A man who can round the bases with that speed would get more respect on

Hey, the Braves hired a chick. To announce this time. That’s a first in major league history. When she interviews a player perhaps they should simulate a real conversation with a man and point the camera directly at her breasts.

The Miami Marlins have oysters for sale at the ballpark. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad idea. 

Depends on if you ask my parole office.

So the Phillies season ended before I could wear my official Phillies parka and my team stocking hat compliments of the Cabrini College giveaway. Look on the bright side, at least the soccer playoffs are in full swing.

Hey, is it true David Beckham models underwear while he’s playing?

I’ve never been with a man who can work only with his feet. 

One thing is certain: Anthony Weiner doesn’t play soccer.

See you at the ballpark.

Check me out at or read my new book The Aliquot Sum, available at Barnes & Noble or Amazon.

August 1, 2012

The Cure for a Trade Hangover

by Cindy Falteich

There was a sign over my grandma’s stove that read:
Even at a young age, I knew I was in trouble. At five, I’d done neither. Now I do neither well.
Speaking of things I do poorly… I’ve been blogging for almost three years. 
That’s a year longer than my husband has experienced satisfying sex.
Okay, maybe I’m giving myself too much credit. That’s at least two years longer than I thought he’d experience satisfying sex.
It’s a sad state of affairs when you have the propensity to do well but your performance has slacked off.
In some parts, it’s a common phenomenon known as marriage.
In others, it’s the 2012 Phillies. The team would be set if there was a Viagra for major league baseball players.
Well, technically, I guess there is. Just not one that helps them round those bases.
As a result, Ruben Amaro, Jr. felt the need to shed payroll. And Shane Victorino and Hunter Pence were sheared like sheep. Before you know it, I'll have nothing left to do but think of my husband when we're having sex.
How could I forget the day Hunter Pence came to town? Twenty-four hours later I was kicked off the community blog site that had embraced me like a stray cat that was pissing on the shrubs.
And all I did was use the word “titties” in context.
I wonder if I can put that on my tombstone.
I’d say epitaph but it sounds like I need a bath.
Hunter, I’ll remember the day you arrived like it was only a year ago.
Wait. It was. That’s probably why it feels like it. Let me see if I feel anything else.
Sorry, my husband says I can’t share that.
I told my teenage son, who knows everything, about the trades. He said, “Schierholtz?”
It might be helpful to tell you he didn’t say it as an inquiry—it was more like the inflection he uses when I tell him to put down his Victoria’s Secret catalog during dinner.
Like this: “Schierholtz?!”

Or the same voice I use to answer my husband when he says, “Want to have sex?”
Like this: “With you?!”
Maybe I could put my husband on the trading block. I could get some young prospects, cash and a lay to be named later.
Wait. That was a Freudian slip—just like the one my husband had the night my son was conceived.
Maybe the problem is Ruben Amaro, Jr. thinks I need some upgrades. Just like the makers of Viagra who think there’s something I need enhanced.
Man, were they wrong. Like I want someone who doesn’t interest me to want more of what doesn’t interest me about him. Now, if they really wanted to spice up a relationship they’d invent a pill that makes something glow in the dark.
And just like a Glowstick you’d have to whack it to make it work.
Or they could dress my husband’s tool to look like something that excites me—like shoes. Have you seen how they design women’s heels to look like a duck or a tux? What if they made a johnson that looked like a shoe?
Now that’s what I’d like to see for a Ladies Day giveaway at Citizens Bank Park.
Unrelated: Is it still called porn if no one watches?
Wait, I got that messed up with the tree falling in the forest thing. Too many phallic symbols in this blog.
What if they had sponsorships for husbands? Like Red Bull’s support of wakeboarding. Only my husband’s sponsor would be Frosted Mini Wheats. Or since that industrial accident, we could say Frosted Mini Wheat.
Maybe I should just suck it up and get my mind right about these trades. Then I could put it back where it belongs: in the gutter. What’s wrong with me? I haven’t even stalked these new arrivals and I’m acting like they’re all virgins.
Wait. That’s not such a bad thing. Let me try again. … I’m acting like they’re all… Wow, they’re men! What more could I possibly want?
I know: previews. I want a trailer of each new player. Just a simple YouTube video. I’d even direct. Imagine scantily clad ballplayers prancing around in cute heels. Two of my favorite things in one place!
I have a better idea: I could make a “Call Me Maybe” video for the newbies:
Here I am
I’ll love you baby
Those other guys
They call me crazy.

Don’t you listen
They’re just lazy
Don’t call the cops
Just say,” Maybe.”
My fear is that the exceedingly poor team performance has overshadowed the possible career years of Carlos Ruiz and Juan Pierre. What scares me most is Carlos is in a contract year and nothing is being leaked.
Well, when I sneeze it’s a different story.
Juan Pierre is the guy who just can’t find a permanent home. He’d be a beloved everyday contributor to any team if someone would just have a career ending injury.
Or get traded to a team that’s a contender. Face it, both Victorino and Pence went on to greener pastures. Maybe it’s Pierre’s time to shine.
He could finally have a Viagra moment.
Hey, is that product placement?
My husband says, “No, that’s what I did on your honeymoon.”
Suddenly everyone’s a comedian.
See you at the ballpark.

Check out my new website or stalk me on Twitter.

May 9, 2012

This Definitely Won't Get Me Back on Bleacher Report

by Cindy Falteich

For the first time in a long time, the Phillies are bottom-feeders. They’re scrounging for a W in a division defined not by wins, but by those who float to the top with the fewest losses. Where unfamiliar names like Pierre, Nix, Orr, and Wigginton patch holes in an offense wounded by the premature expectations of something greater.

Sounds like my honeymoon.

The Phillies can’t win, my husband is out of town, and I’m about to get my period. It’s time to get down and dirty.

Did you know there’s not a synonym for “dildo” on You probably didn’t. How embarrassing. You also can’t find the cure for an impotent lineup.

I keep thinking Charlie has a secret weapon up his sleeve—a chant, a strip-o-gram, a superstition—something he does before reporters are allowed to enter the locker room. 

Wait, we might not want to see that.

Maybe there’s something he says that players are threatened not to repeat—like the things I say around my son that end with, “Mom, not everyone loves the Phillies THAT way.”

It’s why I clear my browsing history before the sitter comes.

It’s why is not an acceptable reference for my kid’s term paper.

It’s why the guys at Bleacher Report kicked me off even though I used “titties” perfectly in context. 

I feel so violated. 

Actually, I’m lying. It was the first time I got to use “pussies” in a piece of business correspondence.

My husband says that’s not politically correct.

Yeah, but it’s anatomically correct.

Where were we? Oh yeah, the latent lineup. The bottom line is, we don’t like this. As fans, we want certainty; we hate curveballs.

We want every player to be a hard hitter, a wicked base runner, a blinding hurler, a spry fielder and a good kisser. But only at positions one through nine.

My husband says there’s something wrong with the above paragraph. Let me review.

Oh, yeah, I forgot position sixty-nine.

My apologies.

We want big contracts to protect against injuries, terrorists and the common cold. We paid $15 to park, dammit! We want real Cheesewiz on our steaks and wins—huge freaking triumphs!

But then Ryan Howard’s blown Achilles haunts us like a Shakespearian theme and the cartilage in Chase Utley’s knee is still AWOL. That leaves us with a curious case of how to do something with nothing.

Wow, do I know how that feels. Just last week I went to get my hair trimmed and ended up sheared.

And you thought that would be a boob joke.

Actually it is. The stylist cut my hair proportional to my chest.

Obviously he thinks I’m a minimalist.

Actually I am. For instance, take my husband.


I’m sorry. That was probably inappropriate. Or was that politically incorrect? Wait, my husband says he’ll explain: “It’s inappropriate to tell someone to take your husband. It’s politically incorrect to tell someone to take your husband because he has a limp dick.”

I remember now. He prefers, “Viagra-dependent.”

Like the blind man said while pissing into the wind: “It all comes back to me now.”

The question remains: Is it politically incorrect to refer to the Phillies as losers? 

How about we say we have a winning deficiency, losing becomes us, or the Phil’s lack of winning smolders like a Pennsylvania coal mine. It’s not that the game goes badly, it just ends too soon. We’re win-challenged, victory-impaired or, my favorite, loss-happy.

Makes us sound retarded.

Was that politically incorrect? I hope so. Somebody please violate me!

Shane Victorino started the season with a cameo on Hawaii Five-O

Like that segue?

He played a hot, young executive attending a balmy island retreat with breathtaking scenery and horny co-workers. He was also fully clothed. 

Note to the producers: That’s not masturbation material.

Then to rub it in my face, Shane appeared with his co-star, Daniel Dae Kim (that’s Hawaiian for “Daniel the Schlong”) while he threw out the first pitch on Monday.

(If you need help, click here: DaeSchlong.)

They were both fully clothed.

When’s the last time you heard a real woman say, “I wish he’d put his shirt on, he has such a great personality.”

“Look at the size of his hands—that’s an indication of intelligence.”

“I knew the bulge in his pants meant he was happy to see me but I just wanted to snuggle.”

“He likes paint-by-numbers?! That’s such a turn-on.”

“Those jeans are way too tight on his ass. He must struggle with self-esteem.”

“Wow, I wish he’d kiss that guy.”

Get my point?

Sign of the apocalypse: Jamie Moyer is second in the Rockies’ rotation.

You know he had Tommy John surgery. He set the record as the oldest active MLB player to do that too.

Yes, that's an innuendo.

I heard he got a tendon from a cadaver. Supposedly it was younger than one from his own body.

I won’t tell you what else he had transplanted from a cadaver. Supposedly, objects on the dead are larger than they appear. 

Now that’s what I call an organ donor.

Can you tell I have insomnia? 

My friend Dave, the only Cubs fan in existence, sent me a message after he beat the Phillies: “In 10,000 words or less can you describe how the Cubs beat Phillies’ pitching? Please use words like ‘shitty,’ ‘wind,’ ‘sand-in-my-eye,’ and ‘hooker.’”

I responded with poise and integrity: “Suck it, Dave.”

That’s because I’m a seasoned journalist.

My husband says, “Yeah, IN season journalist.”

Did you know they have a mold of Roy Halladay’s hand and forearm after he pitched the perfect game?

Wow, I just thought of a great dildo idea.

No, those are not congruent thoughts.

They’re consensual ones.

Phil-itically correct ones.

For some reason, a Canadian pharmacy still insists I need Viagra. My husband says, “I don’t need your head to get any harder than it is.”

Does anyone know what happens when your dog eats a 90-day supply of Cialis? My husband says, “Yeah—you call in under an alias for another.”

I gotta get some sleep.

See you at the ballpark.

October 4, 2011

Philadelphia Phillies: Wind, Wins and Other Things That Pass in the Night

by Cindy Falteich

Crickets and crows. That’s what we’re reduced to.

The songbirds that tweeted their 140 character posts from dawn till dusk have exploited the north and closed their accounts. The weeds that grew like beanstalks have begun to grey, a reminder that their exoskeletons will haunt me until our first big snow. And today it took only a breeze to rain leaves.

It all means just one thing: the postseason has rushed in like a brisk wind.

Or I’m just feeling the effects of tacos.

Growing up in the Midwest made me appreciate how short a 162 game season can be. Summers were abbreviated by camping trips, fish flies and fears of flood. By this time each year my little brother would empty the yard of crab apples by smacking them one-by-one with his plastic bat into the lawn across the street, dreaming that each one that pitted the siding cleared the wall at a major league stadium almost 200 miles away.

At County Stadium. That’s where Robin Yount and Paul Molitor swung like gods on deck. Where we snuck my little brothers into the game by shoving them through the turnstiles with a large group because our four country butts barely filled two bleacher seats. Where we handed our clothes packed in brown paper bags to the doorman at the Hyatt Regency who threw them in the trash because he thought we were just cleaning out the car.

Where our sunburns were the color of ketchup and the boys filled the air with the aftershock of digesting brats all the way home.

If they’re still looking for alternative energy sources, they should test the tailgaters in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Now another regular season has passed. A few days ago I flipped my Phillies’ calendar to a month of empty dates and ESPN didn’t have to pretend the Yankees were the only team worthy enough to make the promos.

Is it a coincidence that Moneyball came out at the climax of the baseball season? I think not. As a result, Brad Pitt is on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Now that's what I call masturbation material.

Soon the season where I don layers to make up for my lack of culinary skills will be upon us. Before you know it, that whitewashed period of memory called ‘the holidays’ will pass and we’ll enter the point in time where we can ask, without criticism, “When do pitchers and catchers report?”

If the Phillies have one more 'Game 2' they’ll be asking that question much sooner than they thought.

In Game 1, Roy Halladay got hit before he retired 21 straight.

That night I witnessed the 11-6 conquest from three rows behind home plate. I saw Phillies’ backsides warm up to bat from a seat so close it was illegal to admire their body parts through my binoculars.

The gourmet hot chocolate in Diamond Club was so good I got a pimple.

I saw Hunter's pants warming up from ten feet away. I’m still drooling.

When Shane Victorino ran onto the field, I had to adjust my binoculars—one eye is dirtier than the other.

And you should know that the screen behind home plate was put there to keep people like me from fondling the players.

I’m not saying I was born with an abnormal amount of Phillies spirit (nor will I admit to my other abnormalities for that matter) but that night TBS televised my face and voice as the poster child for Phillies love.

When a friend texted me that I was on TV, I had one thought: I hope it wasn't when I let that stinker slip.

My husband says my whoop-whoop was the first time I’ve opened my mouth where it didn’t sound like I was simultaneously talking through my ass.

And thanks to a good headwind, he didn’t know what part of that pre-game meal was slipping through my crack.

So there I was, famous—if only for a moment.

Let us not forget, baseball is the endless quest for moments, the sum of which we hope produces a great memory. Cliff Lee, last year’s Christmas lift, could only claim in Game 2 that he sent nine guys pouting back to the bench with a capital K like he left them a lump of coal on a cold yule morn.

Hey, that’s an idea for a 5-hour energy commercial: “Cliff catch you looking?”

The loss was anticlimactic compared to the previous game but admit it: amazing plays, timely hits and ruthless pitching often compile a win, especially this year in Philadelphia, but when they don’t, let’s not miss the forest for the trees.

You win some, you lose some, you learn some. Every single day I’m reminded of what I don’t know. Maybe Charlie Manuel is too.

My dad says Charlie needs to ‘manage’ and I should get that message to him if I can. He should trade the ‘big inning’ for small ball. Exploit the speed. Watching Game 2 was a reminder that almost all manufacturing has moved overseas.

The gritty, dirtball, sandlot immaturity fizzled, replaced—one would think—with the illusion that less risky strategies would work. But if you’ve been paying attention, the only sure things in this world now are death and taxes for the middle class.

Don’t get me wrong, I hope the Phillies win the series. And I’d love to go head-to-head in the NLCS with the new Younts and Molitors—Fielder, Weeks, Hart and Braun. It wasn’t long ago Brett Myers drew a 9-pitch walk off Milwaukee’s CC Sabathia before punctuation of his initials was debated. The NLDS win led to another where Matt Stairs became an icon at more than just the Country Buffet. And then Joe Blanton earned the nickname Joe Lumber for his closed-eye homer that put the Fightins one win from a World Series parade.

Another one of those isn’t much to ask. Luckily for the Phils, I’m low maintenance—I don’t need to cook or clean to boost my self-esteem.

So the series is tied as the contenders head to St. Louis for two. The bookies bet the Phillies would win the series in four. The chance my son gets gassy in the third? Pretty good.

He’s from Midwest stock. Brats are in our DNA.

Is a World Series win in the stars?

Believe it.

See you at the ballpark.

Stalk me on Twitter.

Copyright 2011 Flattish Poe all rights reserved

September 15, 2011

I Did What I Did Because Love Came To Town

by Cindy Falteich

Well, the inevitable happened. On August 2nd, 2011, I was censored off the blog site The Bleacher Report. They said my posts were over the limit on their content criteria and I had failed the limbo with my language. Much like the Game Commission, they were hunting for violators and I’d been tagged.

(The blog that started the ending is here.) 

I said, I shouldn't be held responsible. I only did what I did because love came to town."

It didn't matter. Obviously relaying my honest intentions regarding the bodies of major league players is immoral, especially when the site has highly intelligent life forms posting articles like ‘Sexy American Wags’ or ‘40 Hottest MLB Wags’ or ‘One Night Stand Wags’ (WAG = Wives and Girlfriends).

I mean there’s nothing more offensive than reading the secret thoughts of a middle-aged MILF when guys are secretly stroking in the john with their ‘Wag of the Week.’

Fortunately for you, I’m a poacher. I have lots of chocolate and I’m not afraid to pour it on everything. So if you like what you read, spread the word. Copy and paste me like a Scarlett Johansson nudie or forward me to your friends.

They’ll find me much less distasteful than an STD.

But just as hard to shake.

Let's get started. Like my boyfriend used to say when he pulled over on a dirt road, “Look out, speed hump ahead.”

The Phillies lead major league baseball in wins, they didn’t lose a series until mid-May, and they’ve been sweeping through the season like the broom of the National League.

That’s more cleaning than I did all year. My idea of housekeeping is a flash fire. Unfortunately Clorox doesn’t make a product that can clean my mind.

My husband says I should try OxyClean. It’s effective on certain types of morons.

Back to baseball. I know fans were fretting some decisions made by upper management, like the one to bolster the pitching rotation but neglect replacing Jayson Werth with a big bat. But I had only one problem: how I’d survive without him.

Outside of the fact that he has no idea who I am, we’re very close.

I’ve wanted to blog about my despair at losing the bearded one for months but every time I thought about it, I’d drool on my keyboard.

I'm like Pavlov's bitch.

Rest assured, two things are mutually exclusive: dreaming of Jayson Werth and keeping my panties on.

Don’t look at me that way. Why do you think women watch baseball anyway? Because unicorns wear cute shoes? We want to see men do amazing things. And I’m not talking about putting the toilet seat down.

On May 4th I prepared religiously for the appearance of Jayson in Philly for the first time in a Nats uniform. I colored my roots before the game because if there’s one thing Jayson likes, it’s not me.

Last year he was responsible for 11% of the Phillies’ RBIs but a far greater percentage of my sick thoughts.

From his stats it doesn’t appear as though he’s a major National's offensive contributor. Yet. But he’s got six more years.

By that time my eyes will be so bad my husband will resemble someone I want to have sex with.

I think I’m aging into a shar pei.

Let’s face it, some things aren’t figured in Jayson’s numbers: like a cool slide for a high fly, stealing home, or a 9-2 double play. They count OBP’s, putouts, and sacrifice flies, but there’s not yet a stat for ‘stud.’

Now that he’s gone, I’ve given up hope for a Jayson Werth thong giveaway at Citizens Bank Park. So I fashioned my own out of paper and streamers. I’m upset because my husband said I can’t wear it on my head.

I told him it’s origami. He’s not buying it.

How will anyone ever know what’s dear to my heart if I wear it on my ass?

I wonder if swear words on the internet are pixilated like they are on The Late, Late Show?

I wonder if these could be called ‘swear thoughts.’

My husband says in any case, it’s inappropriate to wear my panties on my head.

That’s his job.

Did you know the cap Wilson Valdez wore when he posted the first win of his career in the 19th inning save against the Reds will now be displayed in the baseball Hall of Fame?

Now that’s something I would wear on my head.

His ass I mean.

I wish Jose Contreras would come back. I like his nickname. Charlie calls him ‘big truck’ because he drives one. If that’s the case, for the first time in my life, I could be called ‘smart.’

My husband says, “Remember, you’re just leasing.”

You just got that joke.

Can you imagine if you could lease a brain? Blondes would immediately trade it for bigger boobs, white guys would swap for a black man’s penis, and Texas—no matter what they got—would claim theirs was bigger.

Oh my God I just figured out why Rick Perry doesn’t like Barack Obama.

Where were we?

Jayson. Just when I was sure the sexy right fielder on my Phantasy Baseball team would forever remain faceless, they signed pesky Hunter Pence. After the trade was confirmed I had one thought: Ruben Amaro, Jr. must have gotten the memo from Tracy Morgan that I needed more masturbation material.

Pence has provided so much protection for Ryan Howard I heard they’re naming a salve after him.

I’m still hurt that Brett Favre never sent me a picture of his privates. How do I get on that distribution list? 

Just once I wish a major league player would choose Anthony Weiner as his mentor.

And in case Michael Stutes was taking a poll, ‘no’ he should never cut his hair. He should let it grow until they call him Michael Godiva.

On that note, I think they should stop making wax sculptures of people and mold them out of chocolate. They should start with the 2008 World Series champs.

Unlike a milk chocolate bunny, I wouldn’t start with the ears.

There. Hopefully we’ve covered the four food groups: chocolate, sex, Phillies, and Pence. I hope I’ve earned my much maligned ousting from the most trusted source in poorly reported sports. And I hope to see you again.

From the ballpark...

Stalk me on Twitter. Check out my old posts on the site that banned me here.

And thanks for reading.