Here you are, Philadelphia, one win away from ending your drought at World Series Utopia. One single win. One. Just one. Can you do it? Can you appease the epically pessimistic fan-base that will forget this title the minute Philly opens next season 4-18?
With Cole Hamels on the mound, the odds seem to fall in your favor. He has the stuff to shut down a now shell-shocked Tampa Bay offense. They look more traumatized than someone getting results back from a bloodtest after fucking Lindsay Lohan raw-dog. Twice. It's that bad.
I don't want to drag this post out, so I say it ends tonight. Series over. Phils win, a city is set ablaze. Hopefully, in a literal sense. And if you're a fan, and I just jinxed it, ior you're mad because I'm "hating", sorry, but I root for the Jets, so my pain is infinite and I'm allowed to hate, son.
I HATE NEW YORK: A LONG OVERDUE UPDATE AND A LONG OVERDONE STORY
You would think that writing for a prestigious blog like WMHG would separate me, Mr. Fancy Man, from all that is wrong with this world. Well, it doesn't - I too share in your daily fight to avoid assholism. And to be perfectly honest, Google's "pee" ads bring in enough revenue to pay for nothing, really, albeit AK's subscription to "Mike Piazza's Alarmingly Gay Hairdo Club". But just seeing the ear-to-ear smile and joy in his blossoming eyes is well worth the $2.99 a month.
Today I was riding on the uptown 2 train, numbly avoiding any human contact or sharing of emotion like every other goddamn NYer, when this lady, let's call her WB(decide for yourself what the acronym stands for) gets on and lumbers in my direction to join me near one of the ultra-hygienic poles. Now, I'm fine with sharing daily hugs and awkward body brushes with people I don't know, it comes with the territory of living in this sinkhole, but this lady was different. Not only did WB step on my foot and bump into me with her fake Coach bag(again, I cannot stress how fancy I am, and how I now have the ability to spot knockoffs. And yes, I know this is gay), she gave ME a dirty look. Now, there were two routes I could have taken here: 1) I hit her so hard her stupid kids shit their pants, or 2) Take the high road, assume she hates me because I wear shirts with collars, and return to my book even though instead of absorbing the words, I blindly skim the pages thinking about how hard I plan on body-checking her, given the chance.
Knowing I do not share the same taste as Larry Johnson for hitting women, and also knowing that I would spend the rest of my (not so) gifted life in prison if I tagged her with a perfectly telegraphed right hook, I took route #2.
But, before I explain the perfect scrape-block I performed on her as a parting gift, a la Alan Faneca, I must tell you the part that bothered me more than the whole "fuck you and your shoes, guy I just walked into". WB was listening to an iPOD, literally, as loud as it could go. Maybe louder. She may have had an amplifier installed, it was that loud. Then she proceeded to bob her head and mouth the awful words to some terrible song filled with trumpets and horns and a lot of high-pitched screaming. It wasn't like she was overcome with emotion by some church rendition of "Amazing Grace", this was some fucking loaf-of-shit by (insert band name here) that has no business playing a concert for zero spectators in a landfill, let alone on recording albums.
It was a spectacle to see, and I hate public spectacles. Why can't everyone just mind their own fucking business, curse under their breath, and politley nod as they step on your face if you happen to take an untimely spill that interferes with my commute? Is that too much to ask? Is it? Well, yes, apperenly it is, because this lady did this for a good fifteen minutes. At one point the man next to me, a stout gentleman who probably likes to shout racial slurs as he hits his wife for letting the turkey get cold, gave me a look like I was the perp in the train car with the brain-scrambling music blasting. Well, sir, you are wrong, it was the lady next to me. But I couldn't say anything, so I tried to steer him toward her with my bulbous eyes. He didn't bite. I screammed loudly in my head, ashamed that I was associated with this moron next to me, and starting to pretend-read again.
So, when the train finally came to my stop, I took measures into my own hand, and gave her a nice, stern bump with my man-bag. There, you bitch, take that! And off I went to spend nine hours stewing over what a garbage can NYC really is.