Hamish is not a person, he is a state of mind with no physical form to contain him. Kind of like a Sizzler, without the buffet.
I know, I know. I’ve been ignoring the world. Oh, woe is me. Hamish almost made it an entire Phillies season without saying a word about the team he creams for. And now, with tonight being the second to last game (that’s right 2nd to last), I can no longer stay silent. I must shout from the rooftops what I feel inside.
The Phillies are going to win their second (in a row) World Series in tomorrow. This is no joke. I have a strong psychic feeling inside that tells me that the Phillies are going to win their second World Series tomorrow night. A spaceman came up to me yesterday as I was drinking an Old Fashioned a the bar at the local ‘Oliday Inn. He began telling me about how he’s from the future and has seen the Phillies win the World Series in 2009. He then took me up to his room (I went due to the fact I was still unsure if he was male or female) and told me what needs to be done in order for them to win.
#1: Brad Lidge must be killed.
He is like a giant cyst on your back. You don’t remember how it got there, or if it was ever not painful to look at. But it must be lanced and the juices inside it must be squeezed out until it is dead. He should never pitch again, now I remember why the Astros got rid of him. He blows nard sacks. I want that trade reversed right now and I want Geoff Geary back.
I’d rather have Geoff Geary be our closer for the final two games of the World Series than Brad Lidge. I’d rather watch Geoff Geary have sex with every animal on Noah’s ark then watch Brad Lidge again. Brad Lidge’s pitching is like watching a car crash and then every other car crash behind it, and every car that crashes has someone you love in it, and every time they crash their lifeless bodies fly through the windshield.
I do not care if Lidge saves the next two games with perfect innings, 3 strikeouts in a row. I will still hate Brad Lidge and hope that he winds up on some mole removal commercial for the next season.
#2: Cole Hamels needs to clear the sand out of his vagina.
Seriously Cole. Seriously. Here’s a bucket of water. Pull down your pants and spread your legs. I’m gonna pour until the sand has all cleared. Then I’m going to beat the ever living shit out of you until you fight back. Brett Myers was right for giving you shit. I’m a huge Brett Myers fan right now. He’s trying to spark some life into your lifeless soul. Yeah, you had a kid. There are thousands of kids born every day, it’s not every day that your World Series MVP pitcher turns out to be a sandy vagined bitch salad.
Stop it. Stop it right now. Get up off the fuckin’ ground. I know that Charlie’s gonna pitch you tomorrow for the crucial Game #7. He has to. He’s fuckin’ Kris Kringle. He brings presents to all the children. Your present is going to be a chance to be the savior of the Phillies. Will you step up? Or will Chan Ho Park have to pitch 5 innings in relief. The ball’s in your court Cole, are you gonna keep selling Comcast to us? Eating pizza with Jameer Nelson and Ochocinco? Or are you going to pitch some motherfuckin’ nasty baseball?
#3: Ryan Howard has to shave his beard.
It’s not you man, it’s not at all. I better be tuning in tonight and see you walk out of that dugout sans facial hair. Remember last year? When you didn’t have a beard? And you didn’t set records for most strikeouts in a World Series ever. Remember that? I do. STOP IT RIGHT NOW. Shave your little girly facial hair and open your eyes and hit some motherfuckin’ baseballs. You know what happens when you start smashing around baseballs? We score more baseball runs. And that’s how we can beat the Yankees. Tons of baseball runs. Then we can pitch anyone we feel like. But when you strike out, you do nothing. Nothing at all. You don’t advance base runners, you don’t pose a threat. We might as well have Jim Abbott out there, because at least he might make contact.
In case you are ill-informed. Jim Abbott was a one armed pitcher. Notice the picture and his baby glove. It’d be very difficult for him to bat. And thankfully he never had to. But, Ryan Howard bats. And Ryan Howard needs to bat. So, let Ryan Howard get out there, clean shaven, and shit all over Yankee Stadium.
#4: Alex Rodriguez and Robinson Cano need to continue not caring.
If I was a Yankee fan, and that’s really taking things far, but if I was a Yankee fan and I had those two players on my team I would continually write about how much I hate them and wish they would get speared through the heart by Baraka.
Now, I know they are both really good hitters, A-Rod way more than Cano (Had Cano on my Fantasy Baseball team two years ago, had to drop him a month in cause he sucked so bad.) But every time I see A-Rod bat I think to myself, Jesus, this guy looks like he doesn’t give two shits. He has the look of the asshole in his eyes. He’s like, “I’m so good, I don’t even know why I stand up here, I should be in the stands watching how good I look standing up here.” Yes, I know he’s clutch and most likely a future HOF (barring steroid issues). It’s just the fuckin’ look he gives standing up there. It’s the same thing I give D McNeezey shit for, if he doesn’t stand there laughing after he throws a ball 50 feet in front of DeSean, I’m happy. But, when he smiles and laughs after fucking up, I want to kill him. I want to smash A-Rod’s face in for the smug ass look he gives. But, you know what, keep it up dickhead. I hope you have the same soulless look when the Phillies in in 7.
As for Cano, he does the same thing and then everytime they show him in the dugout he’s spitting out 40-50 sunflower seeds and they’re all sticking on his gigantic colagen induced lips (Hence me nicknaming him “Colagen”). I hate Cano for his smug ass looks and his holier-than-thou attitude. Want to hate him just as much as me? Look at this picture.
This is fine, keep looking like you both don’t care. It’s one of my personal keys to victories and will make me hate both of you more and more. Fuck the Yankees. Oh, yes, Fuck the Yankees.
#5: Eric Bruntlett needs to pinch run.
I’m pretty sure we can only win these final two games if at some point near the end of the game Charlie decides to pinch run Bruntballs for Stairs or Ibanez or Feliz. Anyone slow on our team really. Bruntballs suffers from the opposite of Ryan Howard. Howard’s hair needs to go, Bruntballs’ beard needs to be bushier. Way bushier. I have a bushy beard right now. But Bruntballs beard is still bushier and needs to be extra bushy for the Phillies to win. This is a point the alien I was talking about earlier kept telling me as I railed him in the ass. With an extra bushy Bruntballs, the Phillies are money in the fuckin’ bank …
And remember, Bruntballs is “not for public use.”
So, there’s a little bar at 8th & Fitzwater by the name of Vesuvio’s. They do a lot of Eagles postgame shows there, and they have an amazing special that every drink is $4. No matter if it’s an expensive beer or a glass of Johnny Walker Black, it’s still $4. So, needless to say I was there last night getting my crunk on. It was after work so I was a little hungry for some dinner. They also have a very good menu with what they call the #1 sandwich in the country.
VESUVIO’s CHEESESTEAK BLT
filet mignon, caramelized onions, bacon, provolone, lettuce, tomato, sriracha mayo.
I’ve had it before, and let me tell you. Amazing. So, anyways, I was feeling a little peckish last night, and I was reading through their menu, trying to find something that suited my half-crunk mind’s pleasure. Then the bartender says to me, if you can’t decide what you want, you need to have the #98. It was one of their specials of the week created by the Eagles very own defensive tackle, Mike Patterson. I looked to see what Mike had created. It was a sandwich with pulled pork, crispy chicken tenders, gouda cheese, crispy fried onion peels, and served with a side of homemade BBQ kettle chips. I was very tempted. The guy sitting next to me at the bar said, “I came here on Sunday and spent the whole day watching football, and I had 3 of those #98’s.” I thought to myself, alright, I guess they must be good and not that overwhelming. “Barkeep! Hook me up with a #98.” Before I continue, I want to show you Mike Patterson with our insanely fat coach, Andy Reid.
He’s a tank. And standing next to a “I eat cheesesteaks on the sidelines” Andy Reid, you can really tell his girth. This sandwich came out and it’s about 8 inches tall. And the bread was spread out to the side just to make it look shorter. Bear in mind, I have a giant fuckin’ mouth and can chonk almost anything. I had to open the jaw to full capacity just to get from bread to bread with a single bite into my gully. But, to keep #98 happy, I’d like to say I finished the beast and have now woken up @ 3 AM to write about it. Why am I up at 3 AM? Because my stomach feels like Mike Patterson took a shit in it. Thanks Mike, you and your boys better kick the shit out of the Chiefs on Sunday, or I’m gonna find out where you live and load up your front porch with all the fecal matter I produce from your stomach damaging sammy.
So, I found an old cassette tape of Disney’s Splashdance (circa 1983). It’s fuckin’ amazing. I mean they’ve got that dude singing most of the songs. You know that dude. The dude who has just the perfectly toned voice that makes it sound like all little kids should take off their pants and show ‘em what they’re working with. Some of the songs even sound eerily similar to like some kind of strange ELO/Styx/REO Speedwagon mix. It makes me feel so good.
Anyway, since I forgot my iPod on multiple occasions, instead of listening to terrestrial radio (it’s way too random) we pop in this tape. And those first couple of songs just make you want to dance, sing, and plain take off your pants, no matter what age you are now. (I plan on including some YouTube videos to give you a feeling of what I was feeling.) My car was ripping and roaring, anyone who hears these songs immediately falls in love with them and can’t stop singing and dancing. It’s just this overall rush, better than crack/cocaine, better than heroin, better than horse tranquilizers. Get some of this Splashdance … it’ll rock your fuckin’ world.