Is It Really Real Son? Yes.

Nuff said.

Yet another example...

of why black people are cooler than white people. If this fellow says so, tonight is most definitely the night. Courtesy of my man Big Ben, Monty Gee throws it down:


Monty Gee on the M-I-C from meech.one on Vimeo.

In Sickness and in Phils

At around 1:30am last night, in between hits of pure oxygen to keep us from hyperventilating, Chief Naka and I took the time to speculate as to the fate of a pair of DR loyalists who had the poor fortune to have scheduled their wedding on the same day as Game 3. Turns out we needn't have worried.

Well played, Mr. and Mrs. Hume. Well played.

The Umpire Smokes Crack

I watched last night's game in a beer-soaked haze, and it took about a half day's worth of conversations before I could separate what actually happened from what I went to bed thinking was a product of my drunk imagination. Imagine my surprise when I found that game 2 would have been equally surreal had I been drinking Dasani instead of High Life.

Is it really possible that we could get the leadoff man on and fail to score in 6 out of 9 innings? That are hitters would continue to impersonate the spring training version of Pedro Cerrano whenever a runner appeared on base? That the wave of an umpire's hand could magically transform a strikeout into a walk and a hit batsman into an out at crucial junctures of the game?

Now, to be fair - last night's loss was not Kerwin Danley's fault. We lost because J. Willem DaWerth made an error, because the TB Gays got runners home when they needed to, and because our clutch hitting suddenly went the way of John McCain's dignity. Still; fuck you Kerwin Danley. Fuck you right in the ass with a square dildo.

That all being said, we did what we set out to do: win one game in Tampa. That we wasted an opportunity to win two sucks ass. That we won't get swept in the series is awesome. That we'll play the next three games in an environment where our hitters can actually pick up the ball (I'm looking at you, Greg Dobbs), and where 45,000 of the Philly faithful will be backing us up, and where Pat the (Rubber) Glove can get his usual Friday night fisting, and where I have tickets to games 4 and 5, is equally, if not slightly more awesome. I'm not euphoric, but I'm feeling good.

GO PHILZ.

Three More to Go

We're approaching about 30 minutes until game time, and I'm too nervous to type anything of substance. Which, of course, isn't much different than usual, but this will be significantly shorter. We took one last night, it may not have been pretty but if the exploits of my personal life have told me anything, looks mean nothing as long as the final score is in your favor.

One down, three to go. GO PHILS.

To help you get through these nerve wracking times, I offer an inspirational video containing one of the toughest adopted cuzzes this city ever had, and we all could certainly learn from, especially DVDubs' welfare collecting ass. Also, because I have a certifiably sick sense of humor, two other videos to ease the tension just a little bit. Enjoy, bitches.







Worst post ever? Worst post ever.

Why Can't Us!

If one were to list all the things I've hoped for over the course of my life, and compare them to which of those things have actually come to pass, the resultant fraction would be even smaller than the Bul Bubak's penis. (I know it's hard to believe, but it's true). From my unrequited 2-year-old's dream of hammering nails into the head of Stand Watie, to my futile desire for the affections of Alicia Humphries, to my hubristic attempts at securing a new job and a raise, my life has been a series of bitter disappointments and broken dreams. And that's before we even start talking about the sports teams. I don't expect pity for this; indeed, as Philly fans know, perpetual misanthropy is a part of our DNA. If we ever got what we wanted, what would we have to complain about?


As fans, we're oftent pilloried as a bunch of naysayers who always expect the worst. Well, the reason we expect the worst is that the worst is what usually happens. When Big Firm emailed me to say that he wanted no part of a Game 5 ticket, he explained his stance by pointing out that if the Phillies got swept, there would be no Game 5 for him to go to. I don't blame him for this mindset - if he thought any other way, I'd call him an idiot for not learning anything from the previous 3 decades of failure.

We all know about the heartbreaks of the '93 Philles, the '01 Sixies, the '04 Eagles and whatever the fuck year it was that the Flyers lost to whoever they lost to. As a fanbase, our suffering has become a joke; a played-out punchline for professional bloviators who have nothing else to talk about. To us, it's less something we think about than a foreboding desperation we feel in the very core of our bones whenever one of our teams verges on the edge of success. It seeps into every corner of our lives, whether we're watching sports or not.

But here's the thing about life in general, and sports especially. Fanhood is like that really gay Chumbawumba song that DVDubs no doubt listens to on a daily basis: We Get Knocked Down, But We Get Up Again. Why do we keep getting back up? Why do we continue to bleed Phillies red and Eagles green and Sixers black (unless it's those super dope cream throwbacks)? Why do we continue, in the face of what feel like insurmountable odds, to hope?

It's because we can!

Nothing can stop us from hoping! Not 25 years of championship futility, not 8 years of Bush's presidency, not even repeated rejections from attractive women! Because, at the end of the day, this time just might be the time that she says yes. Or at least doesn't throw a drink on you and kick you in the balls.

Four more to go

I'm not going to lie, it hasn't really sunk in yet. Sure, I watched the game. I saw the win. I watched grown men running around like kids after the last bell rings on the last day of school spraying expensive and delicious champagne on each other. I watched ceremonial trophies being given to an oft maligned, and yet highly respected manager and a 24 year old pitcher that through his play almost violently quieted many who up until a couple of weeks ago were accusing of not being able to perform in "big" games. So I do know what happened, but it really hasn't hit me yet. Maybe it's the calm before the storm, maybe it's guarded optimism that's keeping me from truly being able to let go and party like it's 1993, maybe it's fear of the unkown. Regardless of what it is, I do know this: THE PHILLIES ARE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES.



I grew up in a house* in which it went unquestioned that actions taken within the living room, specifically in plain sight of the TV, were very, very capable of having a direct effect on the Phillies performance on the other side of that TV. If you were to walk into the room and shortly thereafter something detrimental occurred, you would be expected to evacuate the room in a very timely manner. Should something brilliant occur while you were not yet seated, standing was your destiny. And so on. The point of me giving you a window into what future therapists will likely refer to as the "root of my problems" is that I'm not trying to be self-absorbed or egotistical when I theorize that my celebration prior to an actual World Series victory would fall high atop the list of direct causes of a World Series loss. This is not to say that you should avoid celebration, by all means it is well deserved and I genuinely wish you the greatest of times while doing so. This one is squarely on me, and I will respond accordingly. After all, we still have four more wins left before we truly arrive in Mecca, and I can't allow myself to compromise that. Go phils.



* - It is important to note that the main perpetrators of this behavior in the house, my father and his ace rollie Mehmet, converted to being baseball hooligans after being lifelong rabid European soccer fans, and we all know they're fuckin nuts.

What does it all mean??

I am superstitious when it comes to Phillies baseball. I have moved twenty times during the course of this game, taken off jerseys, adjusted hats, & put on different jerseys. It's the least I can do as a fan, though I have given serious consideration to assassinating Manny Ramirez. And then we fell behind 5-3, and even I, the most loyal of loyal...began to lose faith. Well not so much lose faith, but turn my attention to game 5 and the performance Cole would have to put forth to get our team right. And what does a man do when he loses faith, or at least loses focus?? He turns to Facebook. So there I sat, a mere two innings ago, perusing Aleeetia's page and reviewing photos of our most loyal reader frolicking through the pacific northwest with his new bride. And then lightning struck. I looked up, screamed like a rape victim, and willed my favorite Hawaiian's ball over the right field fence. After jumping around, waking up my neighbors, calling Chief Naka and finding my seat again on the couch, I glanced to my left and saw the picture below staring me in the face. It was cosmic.


So when two batters later Matt Stairs came up to the plate, and my computer had been shut off...I figured what the hell: bring up that mysterious DVW sea creature picture and see how truly magical it is. And that's what I did. And we all know what Matt Stairs did. And I've now been staring this shirtless and hairless Matt Stairs look-alike in the face/nipple for the past hour in hope of channeling his truly unbelievable power.

So what does it all mean? It means there is a reason DVW posts comments twelve times a day. There's a reason he says "i think there are some more rooms matt sta-irs" and we don't repeatedly dead arm him. Put simply, God wants us to go to the World Series. And God wants me to print out this picture, turn it into a t-shirt, and wear it on Wednesday night when Cole punches our ticket. And who am I to turn my back on God.

The Return of Samuel McDalembert

Tomorrow brings game one of the NLCS, postseason baseball the likes of which we haven't tasted since Big Firm was receiving serpentine hand jobs in the woods behind the Wissahickon skating rink. Come 830 Thursday night, I'll be posted up in section 324 screaming my face off for Killa Cole and Company. But all that's for tomorrow night. Tonight, Sammy D and the Sixies are back.


And by the way, win case you all didn't spend your Wednesday evening looking at ESPN Gamecast like I did, I will be the first to inform you that they are back in a big way, busting the asses of the defending champs behind 21 points from Young Thad and 27 from LouWill of the bench. Sammy D held it down with a workmanlike 6 points and 5 boards in 20 minutes, and Uncle Reg provided a glimpse of things to come with 0 points and 5 fouls. E. Brand was content to let the young buls handle biz, as we busted up the C's 08-92.

Did I mention that this was the season's very first preseason game? Did I mention that I don't care? Sixerz 4EVA 2008!!!

Also, if anyone thinks this post wasn't solely an excuse to post a pic of Sammy D with Ronald McDonald, please consult a pharmacist and then give me that pharmacists phone number.

Pic of the Day

In honor of the Phillies, who are indeed doin thangs, we have decided to bring back pic of the day. Enjoy.



Big ups to Eddie the Ponce for sending us the best thing in the history of life. GO PHILS.