Wednesday, October 20, 2010

The Truth About Philadelphia Fans

Hello, the National Media, it's me, Zoo With Roy, of I Want to Go to the Zoo with Roy Halladay fame (check us out online at

We're known for lots of things here at the bolg: deft work with the quill, killer multimedia presentations, acerbic wit, pure stupidity, and fashion-forwards t-shirts, just to name five. I'd like to think we also bolster irrational parochialism and hyperbolic civic pride, because, frankly, we're all too dumb to know that Philadelphia is totally second rate.

Whatever the case may be, I will--following suit--every time act when I feel that my hometown is being slighted. And slighted Philly has been, both by the gladhandling we've gotten from the all-too-kind hipsters in San Francisco (ZOOEY DESCHANEL?!) and the spotlight-stealing going on not far North of us.

So please, the National Media, let's FOCUS on the immutable facts: no fanbase is worse than Philadelphia's. It's true. None is more vile, less-educated, or more violent.

Those signs about Tim Lincecum? Drawn on sheets of acid with vagabond blood. The ginger ale for the Josh Hamilton celebration? Urine from a Philadelphia bottling plant. The urine itself? From union workers who were being paid a handsome wage on the clock, but not actually working. Yeah, that's right, Philadelphia literally peed on Josh Hamilton's head. And that's just the tip of the iceberg (we actually plant icebergs, too, btw).

A local factory recently began manufacturing mass quantities of Pedro Zamora effigies donning a #5 Giants jersey that read Valtrex instead of Burrell. But you bitches won't write about that, because you're too busy rehashing the same old weaksauce crap my grandfather did to a department store Santa in 19-who-cares. Turn off ESPN, it's making you lazier in your vocation than the average Fishtown meth dealer. There are far more impressive feats to uncover if you're willing to challenge yourself. The JD Drew battery tossing incident pales in comparison to many of the group assaults we've pulled off as a fanbase (unable cognitively to plan, it's a reliance on our innate awfulness that allows us such deviance... think on that and everything's more impressive).

Interfering with balls in play? That stuff is child's play. I know for a fact my buddy Myers once threw a regulation-sized bar room dart at Carlos Gonzalez. We've fired pellet guns at Elijah Dukes and his estranged mother, intentionally infected other NL East ballparks with e.Coli and SARS, and once hatched a plan to give Joe Mauer AIDS during a particularly disappointing interleague series. Heck, we've even ruthlessly taunted Chipper Jones by chanting his real first name: Ass-hole.

But darned if I ever hear about those. No, all I get is battery-throwing this and Santa-booing that. Blah, blah, blah. Yawn.

So, if for no other reason than posing intellectually honest arguments, and similarly putting forth honesty in effort, I beg you: just give us our due.

Eff your mother,


  1. Don't forget about the time I stole the baby Jesus from Atlee Hammaker's nativity set. Eff him too. Nevermind Jose Oquendo already did. Oh sniz.

  2. I am a huge fan of the juxtiposition of this post being directly above a giant picture of Cole Hamels with a flower in his hair.

  3. Trying to type with my fingers in my mouth to vomit on my co-worker's 11 year old daughter while visiting on bring your daughter to work day is not as easy as it sounds. Trome.

  4. Sometimes I like to swallow batteries before the game. That way I can throw them up once I'm inside and chunk vomit-soaked batteries at J.D. Drew (or anyone named Drew, or with the initials J.D., or anyone drinking Jack Daniels, or anyone with a stupid goatee).

  5. We wave white rally towels after Labor Day, too.

  6. Slow clap right into a SHARKTITS

  7. don't we eat our young too? you left that out!!

  8. And don't forget the time we gave Joe Carter a tray of Ex-Lax and Absinthe laced brownies with a card that said they were from his mom.

  9. Against the wall they stand in line
    Foreign roles they can't define
    Home, back east, they want to come
    Far out west they're all but done
    Tortured tests of mettle and of might
    They'll look from shelter from the night
    Cold, defeated, they tried to shake
    Ghosts of days they wished were fake
    Lessons learned they hoped did take
    For history, David was about to make

  10. "The urine itself? From union workers who were being paid a handsome wage on the clock, but not actually working."


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