Sunday, June 15, 2008

The Rage of Roid

With my most sincere apologies to Chief Naka, who is blessing us with daily insight into the upcoming competition for the seventh man position on our beloved sixers, I must be heard on this matter and interrupt his flow. See normally I set aside at least an hour to collect my thoughts and indulge the greater public in some worthless and uninteresting train of thought that has leaked into my meandering mind over the last few days. But on this Father's Day, a quick look at the Phillies score and the immediacy of my post was impossible to deny. I am filled with rage. The rage usually accompanied by bacne and miniature testicles.

I'm perturbed. Perturbed with an overweight, angry, poorly groomed bald man. He huffs, he puffs, he beats his wife. But one thing he does NOT do is let up fewer than 6 runs when he steps to the hill as a starting pitcher. To you, Brett Myers, I ask: WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR GOD FORSAKEN PROBLEM? The Phils are primed and ready for a big run through October. Uncle Charlie did the unthinkable and made you the opening day starter because he knew your feeble mind couldn't take the thought of being anything less than the center of attention. And how do you repay our confused yet admired leader? You overeat. You sweat like a pig. And worst of all, you appear to have stopped taking steroids. Sure sure, steroids are bad. That's what they keep telling us. But I'm not buying it. I'm willing to risk you getting suspended down the road for a few victories right now. You got the juice now, man! Do what we want you to do and inject that shit into your backside and lets move forward.

You never were a physical specimen of any note. When we think steroids, we usually think of this. Yet in my mind, there is no alternative explanation for your inability to throw 90mph anymore. Your fire is gone. Your velocity has deserted you. Your biggest contribution to our team at this stage is making us appreciate Cole Hamels that much more since he pitches the day after you. WE NEED YOU. Show some heart, dig deep, stop making me so angry.

On an unrelated note, for all my hating, Ryan Howard miraculously leads the league in RBIs over the last month or so (something like 35 including today's game over that period). Here is a guy who is hitting .215, yet he is setting the standard in what is perhaps the most important baseball statistic out there. How does one explain this phenomenon? Well there are a few explanations that come to mind. For one, he hits behind productive hitters who are constantly on base. Secondly, he hits home runs in games that are, ultimately, already over. And lastly, he is Cecil Fielder. I don't want to believe that Howard has a future of hitting no higher than .250. But if he is going to lead the league in RBIs and homers, perhaps I should accept him for who he is.

And finally, I want to comment on a moment of self-reflection forced upon me late last night. I received an email from a close friend, regrettably born in the Boston area. He had stumbled upon the DR and was disappointed to read that its editors are proudly displaying their hatred for Boston and actually rooting in favor of Kobe and the Lakers. He reminded me that the Lakers are a putrid bunch. And he questioned our reasoning and disdain for all things New England. It had me wondering: Big Firm, are you simply blinded by your own jealousy? Are you that miserable of a person that you can not swallow the delight of your close friends, merely because they win championships and you celebrate simple accomplishments like playoff births and single game Round One victories? Wherein lies this hatred? Well it got me thinking. And when I think, I can't sleep. So there I was, toiling in my own confusion last night...for all of 3 minutes. After three minutes I realized the following: I am jealous - in fact I am fiercely jealous. I am resentful, and I am bitter. But most importantly, I am a proud Philadelphian with stubborn resolve to be the most sour pickle this side of a Native American reservation. So resigned, I say two simple words: Fuck Boston. Though this time I really mean it.

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