Here’s another gem from Bureaucratist, whose tales of debauchery and woe inspire us all. I do feel the need to add that I cannot advocate the act of telling the truth to children. They are barely even people and deserve to be lied to. That is all.
Bureaucratist’s Eagles-Phillies Comparisons in Which Children Are Not Lied To
I can’t sleep, despite almost a bottle of Argentina Cab, two days of nonstop marijuana, two carisoprodol, and a handful of Tylenol PM. I doubt it is the excitement of this afternoon’s loss to the Cowboys, although the quarterback’s scrambling attempts on the late game’s most crucial plays probably aren’t helping.
I say “attempt” because it is difficult to look your daughter in the eye after calling what Kolb did a “scramble.” One does not “scramble” when it appears as though there are concrete blocks attached to one’s feet. One must tell the truth to the children.
Item: I do not have a daughter.
We’re approaching a trough in the oblong oddity of the sporting calendar, equidistant from the last out of the World Series and the clarion call of Opening Day. At this point being alive is like being a drunk in an elevator, unable to touch either wall with extended arms and mistaking the experience for freefall. Fortunately for any right-thinking Phillies fans, we still have the Eagles, at least until Sunday, when I expect them to fulfill their endless capacity for disappointment by a slaughter at the hands of the Packers.
This time of year, like all other times of year, always and inevitably calls to mind the callous yesteryear of my youth, which, like an errant moon, orbited first the planet of the Eagles before breaking into a wider circle around the sun of the Phillies. I know the exact day this happened: May 23, 1991.
I was a sophomore in high school, it was a Thursday, and some coincidental quirk of scheduling found me home from school–no detention for the chronic lateness that really hasn’t much improved with age (although I am rarely any longer subject to detention), no yearbook meeting, no loitering on the outskirts of a pack of cool kids, pretending that I am also or might be cool, no tennis practice (I can hit a baseball much better now than I could then)–home from school just in time to catch the last three outs of a rare afternoon game. They were also the last three outs of Tommy Greene’s no-hitter. In my unexpected glimpse of that unexpected piece of history, the Phillies pulled even with and then nosed ahead of the Eagles in the personal horse race of my mind.
And yet the Eagles still exert their pull. In honor of the Eagles’ remaining hopes, the baseball doldrums of January, and Justin Klugh’s fading dignity (he actually called me a motherfucker in recent conversation, which is goddam outrageous since it’s pretty clear that we were making love and not just fucking, which he should know since he was there), I present to you now the main players in the Eagles’ bizarre season, and the Philly historical or contemporary they-would-be-if-they-could-be:
Donovan McNabb : Pete Rose – On Opposite Day, that is. McNabb starts his career in Philadelphia, excels, and is loathed. Rose arrives late, well into his decline, and his beloved. Ah, championships …
Kevin Kolb : Rick Schu – Another Heir Apparent Who Never Was.
Michael Vick : Lenny Dykstra – Left-handed, felonious, and electrifying.
Desean Jackson : Ed Delahanty – A ridiculous talented body managed by a ridiculously cuckoo brain. Jackson spiked the football against the Cowboys before actually reaching the endzone; Delahanty was stepped off the bridge over Niagara Falls before actually reaching the other side. Before he did so, however, Delahanty went 404/475/584 in 1894. Which will play.
Jeremy Maclin : Sliding Billy Hamilton – You thought 1993‘s Lenny the Dykstra was the Phillies’ greatest leadoff man ever, but Hamilton in 1894? 403/521/523 with a cool 100 hundred SBs. Yes, please.
LeSean McCoy : Sam Thompson – We really need to round out the Phils’ sick 1894 outfield. Thompson went 415/465/696. Sickest Outfield Of All Times? I think you know the answer.
Brent Celek : Cole Hamels – This one is on intimations of homosexuality alone.
Joselio Hanson : Ivan de Jesus – Two great names. Trading baseball cards in 1984 my friend Jason down the street insisted on referring to him as though his name were “Ivan D. Jesus,” the last name pronounced with no accent. I never corrected him.
David Akers : Greg Gross – We all have our contributions to make, and none of them are minor. Mine is propping up the share price of Diageo PLC, which owns George Dickel.
Asante Samuel : Juan Samuel – The highlights are spectacular. Everything else is testicular.
Sav Rocca : Mo Rocca from The Daily Show – Seriously, I can’t be the only one who thinks this every time he comes out to punt, right?
Owen Schmitt : Paul Owens – You see what I did there? You thought I was going one way and then I went the other.