This morning, the Philadelphia Inquirer wasted valuable advertising space by printing the nonsensical ramblings of one, Frank Fitzpatrick.
He starts off his mess-of-an-article by painting a (blurry) picture of a person he saw in the airport yesterday. Something about tattoos, a Phillies hat, basketball shorts and a gold chain. Then he goes:
The temperature-immune traveler had Philadelphia sports fan written all
over him - or would have had there been room amid the tattoos.
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Gee, what gave it away Frankie? Could it have been... I don't know... THE PHILLIES HAT!?
Very observant, that Fitzy.
But that was just a teaser into the best part of his article; where he goes in-depth on "How to spot a Philly sports fan." Let's take a look at some of them, shall we?
The guy drinking rum and coke at 9 in the morning who on 9/11 asked the bartender to switch the channel to the Wings game.
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Wow. That one hurt, Frank. Not offended-hurt. More like, that was by far the dumbest thing I've ever read and you insulted my intelligence-hurt. Fitzy is always coming up with great topical humor bits like this. And since when did Wings games start being played at 9 in the morning? If you're gonna offend people and not be funny, the least you could do is be realistic.
Need more ways to spot a Philly fan? No problem, Frankie has you covered:
The 300-pound woman with a mullet and a Ron Hextall jersey who waddles
so slowly down the middle of a supermarket aisle that you'd check her
into the Oreos if you weren't afraid she might highstick you.
The guy who shows up for a company golf outing at an exclusive country
club wearing a Brian Dawkins jersey, cutoff jeans and sneakers, then
pops a wheelie in his golf cart while cracking open the first of 26
Coors Lights.
The reader whose e-mails begin, "I've been a Flyers season-ticket
holder since 1967" and conclude with "stick to something you know about
like Tiddly-winks or hopscotch, you sissy."
The pack of beefy young men who depart Citizens Bank Park after a
Phillies loss on April 3 shaking their heads and muttering that (a) the
team stinks, (b) its owners are cheap, and (c) the season is over.
The sextet sitting at the rear of your 6:30 a.m. flight to Tampa,
guzzling vodka, chanting E-A-G-L-E-S, harassing the flight attendants,
and, without rising, conversing with their buddies in first class.
The consumptive gambler at Philadelphia Park who wants to know the odds on tonight's Ottawa-Edmonton game.
The schlub in $800 loafers, no socks, and two diamond-encrusted pinkie
rings who double-parks his Lexus in front of Tony Luke's, withdraws a
wallet crammed with $100 bills, and orders a takeout hoagie because
they're too expensive at Citizens Bank Park.
The bozo who calls WIP and demands that Charlie Manuel be fired, Jimmy
Rollins be moved to eighth in the lineup, Wes Helms and Ryan Madson be
packaged for Johan Santana, and Pat Burrell be made to hit lefthanded
but first identifies himself as "the world's greatest Phillies fan."
What an asshole.
I have a good idea on how NOT to spot a Philly fan, Frankie boy --
MOVE TO ANOTHER FUCKING CITY, YOU HACK.
Thank you.