Phils Fans Happy to Bitch Again
May 19, 2009 –
On Sunday, Phillies fans regionwide reported that they were thrilled by the club’s middling performance this season—as they once again have license to bitch, moan, and complain about the team. “Don’t get me wrong; it was great to win the Series and everything [in 2008],” said South Philadelphia’s Thomas Brentano, 40, watching the Phillies struggle to beat the Washington Nationals from a Chickie’s and Pete’s barstool. “But there’s… aw, Jimmy, what the fuck was that? FUCK!” he shrieked as Jimmy Rollins struck out to end the second inning. He turned back, beaming. “Sorry ‘bout that. What was I sayin’?”
Other fans were similarly elated by the Phillies’ 20-16 record and 5.39 team ERA. “Being a Phils fan was never really about winning,” said Pennsport’s Evan Ryan, 50, punching his chair as Chan Ho Park surrendered three first-inning runs. “It was about bitching about ‘em. There’s just something about screaming, ‘Fuckin’ Steve Jeltz!’ that's better than ‘Yay! We win!’ ” According to Moorestown’s Paul Seltzer, 33, “This year, me and my friends can complain about the rotation, Lidge, Rollins—even Utley, ” he said, grinning ear to ear. “It’s awesome that things are kind of getting back to normal.”
Phillies manager Charlie Manuel, however, did not share the fans’ enthusiasm. “I'm happy we swept Washington, but we should still be playing better,” he said, taking a deep drink from a plastic cup of whiskey. “And complaining about it... it sure as hell isn’t fun for me.” Brentano, though, was in baseball heaven. “What’s Moyer’s ERA? Fifteen or something?” he said, clearly delighted. “I think I’ll have to call WIP and whine about it. ‘Cause I’m really ‘upset’.” |
| |
         |
| FORWARD TO A FRIEND |
| |
| |
|
|
 Don’t Fuck it Up, Stefanski
The Disgruntled Sportsman
Dick Gorenstein
Welly, welly, well. We don’t even need a calendar to tell us that it’s mid-May here in the desolate ruins of Sixerville, do we? The boys have long since plopped out of the distended colon of the NBA playoffs—and the GM is looking, for the forty-third time in the last ten years, for a new coach to lead a team built worse than an A.C. parking garage. Outside of choosing a beach hat to cover his massive Savalas dome, this is the most important decision Ed Stefanski will make all summer. So, Eddie, with that in mind, I have a message for you: Don’t you go and fuck this up. Don’t you fucking dare.
Unfortunately, there’s plenty of reason to believe that Mr. Ed, despite my warning, will indeed fuck this up, and royally. This is the man, after all, whose moves have inspired less confidence than a limp cock at an Eyes Wide Shut party: he shitcanned Mo Cheeks for not getting it done with Corky Dalembert and Elton “The Millstone” Brand. He then hired Tony DiLeo, whose main qualifications were his friendship with Stefanski and the charisma of a dried-up sidewalk condom. Both of these moves, of course, were overshadowed by his excruciating signing of the aforementioned Brand, who’s helped the Sixers about as much as a case of Burmese Penis-Wasting Virus.
So Slow Eddie must now make another crucial decision, and the early signs are more depressing than Mask. The leading candidate for the job is Eddie Jordan, the proud owner of a 230-288 career record. Last year, he was axed by the Wizards after roaring out of the gate with one win in 11 games—and had previously coached Sacramento to a Marion Campbell-esque 33-64 record. So why, in the name of Brianna Banks’ gaping butthole, is Eddie S. interested in Eddie J.? Excellent question. It’s because, just as with DiLeo, Stefanski and Jordan are pals. Ain’t that sweet? Fuck Avery Johnson or Jay Wright, or anybody else who might carry a whiff of excellence, sez Steffi. Me and Jord-y used to pway Stwawbewwy Showtcakes togevver!
Now look, Ed. You might think I’m acting out of jealousy because I don’t have many friends myself. True, my last real “friend” smashed an empty fifth over my head because I called his wife a droopy-boobed shit-heifer (I probably deserved it, even if Wendy does look like Prince Fielder in a dollar-store wig). But Frank’s drunken skull-bash, followed by a surprisingly steamy piss all over my semi-conscious face, is neither here nor there. I could care less if your weekends are rich, varied, and filled with laughter; I could care less if your only social contact isn’t limited to the gas man and your ex-wife’s relentless attorneys. But when you’re hiring a coach, your search shouldn’t be limited to your goddamn T-Mobile MyFaves. Is there anybody on the eastern seaboard, other than you, interested in having Eddie fucking Jordan coach the Sixers? If you’re going to hire a useless pile of shit, why not hire the worst? Go after Randy Wittman, or Marc Iavaroni, or P.J. “The Esophagus” Carlesimo. Hey, why not give Johnny Davis a call? After all, his 22-60 run here a few years back seems to fit right in with your scrotum-brained agenda.
Now, you might dismiss all this as anger stemming from what happened against Orlando, or the fact that I haven’t touched tit one since Flashdance came out on LaserDisc. But that’s not it, at least not totally. The bottom line is this: I’m sick of seeing the Sixers flail around like a twelve-man leper colony each and every year. I’m sick of the coaching merry-go-round, which, just like a real merry-go-round, makes me stink my BVDs with bourbon-induced nausea. I’m sick of watching QVC instead of Sixers games, regardless of my love for gorgeous silk scarves.
So do us all a favor and put some goddamn elbow grease into this one. Don’t hire Eddie Jordan just because you guys played a few hands of Acey-Deucey when you were both with the Nets. Act like a real GM for once, and not like Billy King in a grinning bald-guy costume. Fuck this one up, and your shiny, shiny head will be called for—I promise you that, my friend.
Hey, Ed—I just called you “my friend.” Can I coach the Sixers? |
| |
| |
| FORWARD TO A FRIEND |
| |
| |
|
|
