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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