THEY DID IT!

We're crying. We've been pacing and watching (thanks, Jim) and pacing and crying and shaking and screaming and clapping and pinching and Holy Shit, the Phillies won the National League East today.

Holy Shit.

(AP Photo)

Yeah, but then we put on his T-shirt anyway.

We know. "We're not on board," we keep saying. "We won't watch. They'll lose if we cheer for them. Well YAY! for conflicted Philadelphia diehard pessimistic sports fans and games coming down to the final day of the season!

It's just that...

We don't remember the game, per se, nor do will really remember the last pitch, live. But we do remember picking up a hitchhicker in our ol' man's ol' van as we all drove up and down the main "highway" in Newtown, Pa., honking the horn and screaming, "WE WON! WE'RE THE CHAMPS!"

We also remember believing, when we were 5, that teams we root for can, and will, win. We remember thinking it was OK the Eagles lost to the Raiders in the Super Bowl just months later because, well, the Phillies were still champs.

We remember the Sixers winning in 1983 and lots of cigars and champagne and large black men with moustaches. Moses Malone was our hero.

We remember watching the last game of the 1983 World Series against the Orioles in our living room, alone for some reason. We liked the Orioles uniforms and thought, oh well, at least the Sixers are still champs.

Then something happened.

We remember betting Russell Davis in fourth grade that there was no way in hell the Hoyas would lose to Villanova in the NCAA hoops championship. We lost a dollar. (Which is why, to this day, we have betting issues -- as in, we don't like to bet, not OH MY GOD *TWITCH* WHAT'S THE GODDAMN SPREAD *LINE OF COKE*).

No one's won since. It's our fault, really. See, we bet against the Villanova Wildcats in 1985 and they won. We guarantee if we rooted *for* them, they would have tanked.

In 1993, we remember going to the club, bottle full o' bub and laughing that all the dudes were glued to the TVs while their chicks were on the dance floor. No one wanted to do anything but watch Lenny Dykstra and his merry band o' juicers take it to the Blue Jays.

Then, well, Mitch Williams. We rooted for them. And they lost.

The Eagles made a living destroying the hopes and dreams of the fans in the early 2000s, and even now to this day. Get hyped up. Believe. And then watch your QB vomit in the Super Bowl, in the huddle. We rooted for them, and they lost.

So today, we'll do this the only way we know how. We won't watch or discuss anything Phillies. We'll be happy that we live in a New York market. We might watch the Mets, in hopes our bad karma effs with them and their 18 alternate uniforms. Then we'll check the scores about 12 hours from now, sigh, and get ready to watch the Eagles lose to the Giants.

Then we'll go to bed, crying on the inside. We will not believe. We will not get our hopes up. We will stay logical and emotionally removed.

And we will still, way deep down inside, love everything about our favorite team except Adam Eaton and the old crusty white people who own and operate it.

Just don't tell anybody.

This'll cheer us up.

Our good best friend Emjay has a point. Is Heidi Montag hot? We can't quite put our finger on it, either. We'll just stop there.

And hey! From the random thoughts department: "HAHA! Rutgers lost!" we blurted out about an hour ago. "Haha! Stupid Rutgers."

*Click*

We will never, ever, fully believe that a Philadelphia team will win when it matters. This makes us beyond sad.

The Mets have been absolutely choking the season away the last two weeks. But today, John Maine almost throw a f*cking no-no, and the Mets won huge, 13-0.

We've told anyone who would listen not to talk about the goddamn playoffs, not to start talking sh*t, not to brag or not to jump on board a bandwagon that always, always loses a f*cking wheel when it really, really matters.

Still, even we believed. We changed the effing header to blood red at 4:30 in the morning when we couldn't sleep thinking about this.

The Phillies had a one-game lead this morning when they all woke up. We just turned off the game after Ryan Howard booted a ball in the seventh, and then Carlos Ruiz inexplicably threw a ball into center field with a runner on third. It's 4-0 Nationals right now.

If they come back, we'll eat our words. If they don't, well, the division is tied with one game left. You tell us who has a better chance: Tom Glavine, pitching for the Mets, or Jaime Moyer, pitching for the Phillies.

Someone best grow a set.

As Omar says on The Wire, "Come at the King, you best not miss."

At this oint, we'll talk about anything else.

And yes. 5:15? Yu. Wide the eff awake since 4:13ish. Don't ask.

im 27 and i live in west orange new jersey
i love to text.
dancing is my life!
im a big partyy girl! i love to drinkk and bar hop
im a part-time striper. and when im not doing that i teach

Yeah. This came from:

A) The MySace.
B) Our imagination.
C) A pam company.
D) erhaps all of the above.

More on the last train to Shondaland

From Grey's Writers, which has been a retty nice blog about all the rinciple layers and lots on what was once the best show ever: Shonda's fingers are tired from writing so many eisodes of television, but a blog will be coming henceforth and quite soon...

We loved the Grey's last night. Yes Lexie with the OOR ME and Izzie not so much with the I HAD A HIT MOVIE OVER THE SUMMER CALLED KNOCKED U and more with the random Bambi speeches and George with the ensive and Meredith with the IT'S OVER now ut your enis in me and George and Izzie officially becoming GIZZIE (eople actually call them that) and Christina with the not really aying attention to the news that Burke is dunzo because he hates on the gays.

But it was good clean fun, this Grey's. Not that we watch too many rograms on the TV.

Inch us, lease.

We won't even say the word. We won't even write the letter.

All we'll say is last night, the hillies ulled even when the Mets lost to the Cardinals and they beat the Braves. At Burrell hit a homer. So did Ryan Howard. Forty-thousand-lus acked Citizens Bank Ballark, waving silly white towels, chests ounding with ride.

The hillies won, 6-4. They lay the Nationals (hey, now) this weekend in a three-game set. The Mets get the Marlins.

The difference here is we won't brag. We'll cautiously cheer and remind the city of hiladelhia that this is a team who's ulled close before, only to blow it in the end. So before the hillie hanatic starts dancing around New York TV -- our favorite morning rogram reported this this morn' -- let's all take a deep breath and remember: We're talking about the hiladelhia hillies.

So. Cautious cheering. Won't. Say. The word.

HOLY SH*T! WE KNOW WHAT WE WANT TO BE WHEN WE GROW UP! FINALLY! WE GET IT!

6:57ish, last night: Excuse me, do you know how to get to the mall in town?
7ish, last night: Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to Hanover?
7:30ish, last night: Excuse me, how do I get to the museum?

We figured it out, sweaty and somewhat out-of-breat, post-run. We should so be a Direction Giver for our full-time gig. We can still dabble in music on the side. But full-time Direction Giver sounds fantastic.

Why?

Every time we go out for a li'l jog, someone asks us for directions. Every time, we give them. Friendly and somewhat annoyed we haven't started running. Ah, well. Good samaritan is so the new 2007, right?

Read the Comments!

(A loyal and too pretty reader suggested we repost this because it was HIIIIlarious).

Dear Commerce Bank Guy,

Oh no you didn't. No you didn't just wave a stupid effing Commerce Bank flier in our effing face when all we wanted was an effing bagel and effing coffee and to be effing left alone. We don't want your effing business. You represent one of like 18 banks in our effing town AND you replaced one of our favorite effing bars with your big stupid red C'd building and plush parking. You're a white guy in a suit waving fliers and we almost punched you in the face. Do people really decide their financial futures based on Jimmy Stewart in a suit over there? Eff, no. But oh with the fliers. Rule of thumb: if we don't make eye contact, which annoys us because we *always* make eye contact, then don't come at us us with your effing flier. Keep it pocketed and don't be all up in our sh*t. Commerce Bank sucks, Commerce Bank Guy. Now choke on that, slapnuts. EFF.

There. All better.

Oh that Addison and HEY! Nate's alive!

OK. So we love us some Addison. Who doesn't, really? But we're so off the Shondaland Express. Granted, the show opened with Dr. Weber, which was nice, and Addison dancing naked, which was really nice, but, well, we just couldn't get into seeing such pretty doctors all the damn time. We made it through the initial nakedness, which, again, nice, and then we caught the end with the shadow nakedness -- we know, you had to be there -- but other than that, THUMBS DOWN for Private Practice.

Meanwhile...


Thumbs way the eff up for the Dirty Sexy Money. Peter Krause effing rules, and while it's weird his wife is Lisa -- we know, you have to have watched the Six Feet Under to get the reference -- the show itself is tight. We love that Nate Fischer/Nick George gets to tell a bunch of clueless rich twats where to put it.

Oh. And trannies.

Watch the Dirty Sexy Money. Don't watch the Private Practice. God, this pains us because Kate Walsh is so our girl. Damn you, Shondaland.

The Mets lost again?

Yeah. But, um. Then, well, the Phillies. They don't even deserve a verb.

From Todd Zolecki's story in the Inquirer:

They led the NL wild-card race with eight games to play in 2003 but finished 1-7 to wind up far behind the Florida Marlins. They shared the wild-card lead with 16 games to play in 2005 but ended up one game behind the Houston Astros despite a 10-6 finish. They shared the wild-card lead with six games to play last season but went 3-3 to finish three games behind the Los Angeles Dodgers.

They have missed the playoffs by a combined four games in the last two seasons.

So they stay two back of the Mets, and are now one game back of the Padres because of course the Padres won last night and of course the Phillies, who tied for the Wild Card on Monday *without playing*, are now one-game behind the Padres.

Awesome.

Wait. What are we looking for?

Re: below. Well. Huh. We guess we slept on it. In no particular order, of course.

1. World peace and education for all U.S. Americans.
2. A daggum NL East pennant or a freaking secured Wild Card spot.
3. Someone to spoon during Friday Night Lights (why are we dreaming -- yes, again with the dreams -- that Tim Riggins is saving Tyra from a strip club?).
4. Someone who doesn't care that the ol' bath tub fills up during a shower like one is drawing a bath.
5. More 56 point games from the Philadelphia Eagles Football Club.
6. A pint of Guinness.
7. Someone to go fix us our morning cup of coffee while we do important blog hilarity/work.
8. A thousandth post.
9. At 30-plusish, the ability to grow a freaking beard.
10. A car radio that doesn't go EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE whenever someone else is in the car with us.
11. The guy at the freaking car radio place to call us back.
12. The senior year episodes of 90210 on Saturday mornings.
13. Did we mention the pennant?
14. More young Americans to not only vote, but to not buy into a virtually corrupt and archaic system. Why do Americans who wish to serve the public need to raise, or have, millions to even run for office? Doesn't that scream FAVORS and BEHOLDEN? If one wishes to serve, and perhaps one wishes to serve because he doesn't really believe in saving money (first exhibit: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE radio), then shouldn't one be able to think about serving without thinking, "Yeah, but then there's the whole raising money thing." It defeats the purpose. If one wishes to *serve* others, one shouldn't be getting his earn on from the very people he *won't* or *shouldn't* be serving in the first place. You feel us?
15. We mean. Um. Another Guinness.

Why.com

... because we're committed to helping you find someone special, we've pored through stats, member feedback - and much more (we'll spare you the details) to determine what creates a "success story." And the fingers (or, rather the numbers) all point to creating an engaging member portrait. It's true; the most successful people on Match.com are those who show the world who they are through a lively self description and a great photo. And we have some easy ways to get the communication started (and keep it going) – how about a wink, then an email… or even talk one on one. So, with a few, easy steps to get you started, you're on your way to finding love!

We might sign up for real.

We know the match.com was all the rage in like 2003, but, well, call it an experiment. When it says "Looking for:" can we say "Nothing" or "Seriously? You'll think we'll find it here?!" though?

Connecting the dots.

So after watching "Tell Me You Love Me," which we'll tell you we really, really love (more below), we went to bed at 10. We read the Bible (Matthew 6:34, bitches: "Let the days own trouble be sufficient for the day") to gather our thoughts, and then we meditated in the dark.

We slept more than eight hours and dreamed, in order: 1) that the Eagles faked a 78-yard field goal to win a game (Donovan hit our boy KC for 40 yards, and then threw a game-tying touchdown on the same drive a second later); 2) that we were golfing with the ol' man's ol' man sans clubs; and 3) we were lounging in a faceless, nameless woman's bed, waiting patiently for her to fall in love with us.

Ah. Like you need interpretations.

1. Eagles. Winning. Big. We're still not cheering them next week in the Meadowlands, and no, we still won't be hosting a party or cheering them on. Remember: OMS, cheering = Eagles/Phillies losing. Period.

2. We hunt with the ol' man sans loaded gun, so maybe he was getting even.

3. Love. We'll find it again someday, right?

So about the Tell Me You Love Me on the HBO.

It's not getting raved about in blogs. It's not just about graphic (i.e. balls) sex scenes. It's about four couples and their all-too-real life ups and downs. It's about being self-centered and lost in breakups, it's about loving but not sexing, and it's about trying to have babies when the pressure takes all the fun and success out of it.

In other words, it's dark. And we love dark.

Check it out before that sh*t gets canceled.

Proof we read the articles

"Bill Clinton may have taken a sh*t on the Oval Office, as Bruce Willis claims," a guy from Tennessee wrote to our favorite li'l magazine over there, "but his man, George W. Bush, has taken one on the Constitution."

This, in response to a recent Playboy Interview with Mr. Willis, who is entirely too strapping for a lad his age.

They did what, now?

For the record, the Eagles scored 56 points today. It's because we didn't watch and we didn't root and we certainly didn't pick their offense for our total offense in the fantasy football. We're also not rooting for the Phillies this week, and if the Sixers and Flyers were in season, we'd ignore them, too.

(Photo of Kevin Curtis from philly.com).

Oh with the one that got away

We'll miss you.

You, with your tight jeans and white tank top and your Florida Gators scarf/belt. You of your bouncing up in down to the Fall Out Boy, right arm raised and We're No. 1! finger in the air. We'll miss your other dance move, the one with the irresistable Gator chomp. We'll miss you and your randomly long smoke breaks outside.

You chastized us so politely because we don't know when College Football Gameday starts because we watch 90210 reruns on Saturday mornings. You called us BandT when we're not. You made fun of Jersey. You called us out on having a MySpace page (or four).

We pointed out that clearly you and your Gator scarf/belt are better off without us because you can't handle *this*. We left you in the middle of the bar to pee, which means we win.

But oh how we'll miss you, Gator scarf/belt girl.

But don't worry. It's not you, it's us.

Allow us to break character for a moment

So we started running and felt pretty not hungover. We listened to the new Matchbox 20 song (we know) and oh with the looking back on the last few years while jogging down hill, somewhat pain-free -- literally and, well, figuratively.

Then it started drizzling. Then it started pouring. Then we started really running because boy was it ever really pouring. Then we were the it'srainingdouchebag.com and boy was it drenching us mid-run. So we picked up the pace and oh with the heavy breathing and lumbering feet.

Then we were sprinting to the finish.

Once home and absolutely dripping in our Chase Utley t-shirt, damned if we didn't strip shirtless and say, loudly, "I got the sexiness right here."

Then we cackled, maniacally, like a villain.

Oh that Mr. Sutter

So Brando is all, Dad, I don't need you to come down to the shady used car lot to talk to Sylvester McMonkey McBean and his random southern accent I got this playa and Jim is all I'm proud of you, son, for working so hard and saving your money and buying this 1967 vintage Mustang that purrs like a kitten and runs like a cheetah and OMS is all FORESHADOWING ON THE 90210? EFFING BRILLIANT and Brenda is all I got it bad got it bad got it bad I'm hot for teacher and Andrea is all MOVE BITCH GET OUT THE WAY he mine and Mr. Sutter is all, hey, why don't *both* of you let me drive you around Beverly Hills in my Dateline NBC truck and Andrea's like, "You know, Chris, my glasses aren't the only thing I like big and on my face" and Brenda is all, "Chris, I have a boyfriend named Dylan in Hawaii but next year he's going to f*ck my best friend while I'm in Paris with drama queen Donna so all I'm trying to say is feel free to make your move, buddy," and Mr. Sutter is all I think I'll pick the dork because Lord knows she needs some and I'll probably get away with it because she'll be too busy crying and committing suicide when I make my getaway back to Chicago and besides, she so totally has a thing for older men and Andrea is all, "Coffee? With me? When class is over and you're not my teacher? I think I just had what they call an orgasm" and Brandon is all GIVE ME BACK MY CAR MCBEAN and McBean is like whoa, hoss, you bought that vintage piece of sh*t SUCKA and Steve is all Kelly has a rash (!) and can't your dad pay for this like everybody else's dads pay for this and Brando is all EFF THAT Jimbo *gets off* (!) when this sh*t happens to us and then he's all maybe I can get my job back at the Peach Pit and Nat is all whatever dude, you bailed on me without two weeks notice and I hired Lucy Lu and she's efficient and that reminds me, I need to update the jukebox with more outdated '50s music and speaking of music, oh no they didn't. OMG Roxette's Joy Ride was actually playing in the car when Mr. Sutter played bookworm bitches over there.

Oh. And Brando so totally gets his job back at the Peach Pit. Don't eff with Brandon Effing Walsh, bitches. And Bren unleashes the best bitch slap ever on Andrea during their scene in Mr. Sutter's class and later on, after class, Mr. Sutter is all Andrea, oh, so about this whole tapping your ass thing before I leave for Chicago, well, see, um, I have a girlfriend prettier than this sweet cheery red blazer and Andrea is all, whatever, Jesse has a bigger mule anyways and the gang all end up at the end of summer party at the beach club and Brenda is all Dylan, we need to talk see, um, I had a small crush on my older man teacher this summer but I never did anything with him because Andrea -- yes, geeky dorky 38-year-old Andrea Zuckerman -- stole him from me and Dylan was all whatever Bren, I was doing coke lines of vag in Hawaii so we're totally even.

OK. We made up the last part.

We don't get the Jimmy Buffet

We sensed something was wrong as soon as we neared the track. Scores upon scores of middle-aged white people, all wearing Hawaiian shirts and all really, really drunk.

Then we saw a stuffed parrot. And more shirts. Pretty colors, sure, but, well, there were lots of them and we were somewhat scared. We thought we'd ease the fear by playing some of his fine music on our iPod. Fit in, so to speak.

Then we remembered we don't have any Jimmy Buffet because he sucks.

Are we alone on this? Are we? Really?

You have the two tickets and paradise. We get it.

Don't worry, though. Jimmy Buffet got even. We had a nightmare that our deceased great grandmother called us worthless and unaccountable. Ouch. And in the same somewhat restless sleep, we talked to the entire Dave Matthews Band and tried to pimp our own, um, musical endeavor.

Mr. Matthews said he'd give a listen.

And, in case we forget later...

Meanwhile, back in reality...

So we actually had a dream -- a *dream* -- that the Phillies of Philadelphia defeated the depleted Cardinals of St. Louis last night in extra innings. Oops. Seems it was the other way around.

With the Mets and Padres both winning, the Phils are back to being two-and-a-half games back.

We're officially blaming ourselves, because we spent part of the commute home thinking, actually thinking, "Man. What if they actually win the East and go to the World Series?"

We actually contemplated whether we'd wear our maroon, old school Phillies batting jersey or our new Chase Utley shirt out to the bars to watch this World Series. Meanwhile, the Phillies haven't won a World Series since we were 5. One would think one would know better.

And speaking of dreams, we had a vivid, um, dream last night. Again. For like the third night in a row. Hey. Now. Yay for getting some!

HERE IS YOUR WINNER, AND NEEEEWWWWW HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION...

The SHOWERRRRR LINNNNNNNNERRRRR!

It was a tough road to the championship for The Liner. But when the match began, oh Katie bar the barnyard door.

He started the mind games early, with the blowing up and into the shower as soon as the bell rang and the water spurted. The former champ had no shot from then on. The Liner was Clubber Lang to the champ's Rocky, um, the first time, within seconds of the shampoo coming into play.

Up and in. The Liner jumped each time the former Champ reached for the soap, face moisturizer or conditioner. It was curtains for the former Champ when he soaped up his sculpted yet skinny legs and, again, felt the wrath of the attacking liner.

Six minutes in, the former Champ tapped out. He turned off the water, defeated, and stared down The Liner. "Today, he was the better man," the former, now forlorn, Champ muttered.

Predicatably, The Liner returned to form. Quiet. Cool. Calm. Collected.

Champion.

The Phillies are what, now?

We keep saying we won't get our hopes up, but with a victory over the Cardinals last night, the Philadelphia Phillies are now 1.5 games behind both the Mets in the N.L. East and the Padres in the Wild Card race.

They've done this with, at last count, 157 different injuries, a bullpen consisting of wind, rain, a band-aid, aspirin and changed channels, two different MVP candidates in the middle of the infield (is Jose Reyes still the best shortstop in the league? Is he?) and a manager who should be a character on the Charlotte's Web.

We're shocked, and while we're still trying, really trying, to keep our hopes mired in Philadelphia doubt and self-loathing, it'd be nice to wake up in 10 or so days and, well, we're not even remotely going to jinx them.

Oh no he didn'

Consider the source since it's Fox, and y'all probably heard this already, but: Britney Spears will temporarily lose custody of her two toddler sons to ex-husband Kevin Federline, sources told FOXNews.com ahead of the official ruling expected later Monday.

Commissioner Scott Gordon will order the boys, 2-year-old Sean Preston and 1-year-old Jayden James, turned over to Federline based on information that Los Angeles Family Court received over the weekend about Spears, the sources told FOXNews.com.

During Monday's custody hearing, Spears' former bodyguard accused the pop star of having "issues of nudity and drug use" since she returned from rehab, and reports of a planned "hit" on Federline emerged.

Girl, you need to get past this not yet a woman bidness. Right quick.

We know. We said no more Britney coverage. But what of SP and Double J? We must care about them. They are children whose parents are a lip-syncing lass with a done career and a guy who calls *himself* the K-Fed. Help them, y'all, before they become jaded, blowhard bloggers in 30 years.

Yawn*

From philly.com and courtesy of Reggie Brown of the daunting and dashing and, well, deflated Philadelphia Eagles: "Hopefully we can get it fixed. We have to get rid of this taste that's in our mouth. It's a rancid, buttermilk, goat cheese, maggot-filled taste, and once we get rid of it, we'll be all right."

Good luck with that, Mr. Brown.

* And no, we're not tired. We practically slept through last night's "game." Redskins 20, Eagles 12. AND we're 0-2 on the fantasy football season, mainly because Donovan McNabb threw for more than 220 yards. Once we get rid of this rancid, buttermilk, goat cheese, maggot-filled taste, well, you know.

Meanwhile, back in Orenthalland...

From the AP: Simpson told The Associated Press on Saturday that he did not call the police to help reclaim the items because he has found the police unresponsive to him ever since his ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her friend, Ron Goldman, were killed in 1994.

"The police, since my trouble, have not worked out for me," he said, noting that whenever he has called the police "It just becomes a story about O.J."

Police did not allege that Simpson personally carried a weapon in the incident.

"We don't have any information to lead us to believe he was armed even based on those charges," said police Lt. Clint Nichols.

We got nothin'.

Freakin' Paulie

We *knew* Chrissie faked his death. And OH! it's a good thing Tony died in the finale, or he'd kill Paulie for putting his fingers so close to Meadow over there.

(AP Photo)

What the eff is Vinnie Chase doing in the Melissa Joan Hart movie, "Drive Me Crazy"?

We thought his career was *tanking*, but come on, the Clarissa movie?

And how did we ever have a crush on MJH in 1999? Oof.

And wait, why are we watching the Oh!?

And starring James Eckhouse as...

Huh. This omelet is good. Let's see what the episode is about. Oh. It's the one where Brandon secretly lets his friends into the beach house and hilarity ensues. We saw this one a gazillion times. Poor Dylan. Always with the falsely accused. Isn't it time for the DONNA MARTIN GRADUATES episode?

Let's see wha-- NICE! Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur! Yay for football!

Next. Oh. Ms. Shakira. You got an A. Nice job.

From the AP: LOS ANGELES - Shakira may get high grades in singing and swiveling her hips, but what about ancient Western history?

For the past month, the Colombian pop star has been taking a class at the University of California, Los Angeles, called "Introduction to Western Civilization: Ancient Civilizations from Prehistory to Circa A.D. 843."

"She went when she finished her tour, for the summer," Shakira's manager Fifi Kurzman told The Associated Press.

For years the 30-year-old has studied on her own, also taking tutorials on the history and languages of the countries she visits, Kurzman said.

The singer, known for last year's "Hips Don't Lie" and other hits, released her first album at age 14 and later took time off to finish high school.

She decided to take a musical rest this summer following her worldwide "Oral Fixation" tour to focus on social causes, Kurzman said.

The class began Aug. 6 and ended Thursday, though Shakira didn't attended the last few classes, according to course lecturer Robert Cleve. Cleve said he hadn't known she was a celebrity during the course and was astonished to learn she was a pop star.

"She told me she was visiting from Colombia and that she was just doing this for her own enlightenment and enjoyment," Cleve said. "She looked like just an ordinary student. She wasn't flamboyant ... she didn't act like a big celebrity or anything."

Shakira, who sat near the front in the third row of the lecture hall, would often discuss the course material with him after class.

"I was really impressed with how intelligent she was," said Cleve.

Random thoughts, no order:

1. Shakira is 30?
2. Professor Cleve needs to read him some TMZ or at least watch Telemundo.
3. "Discuss."
4. "After class."
5. Professor Cleve, we're on to you.

And now back to things we've never done.

First, we woke up at 11:48 (yes, *woke up*) to chug Gatorade.

Then, we woke up at 4:30 and brushed our teeth.

Now, we're surfing the Interwebs.

OK. We always do the third point. But for the first one, we practically lunged for the Gatorade and darned if we didn't funnel it. For point two, well, somethin' funky up in there. It might have been the festering Gatorade.

We'll stop talking now.

Let's play a fun game of "Guess how long we made it through the President's speech"

Main Entry: for·mi·da·ble
Pronunciation: for-ma-da-bull
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin formidabilis, from formidare to fear, from formido terror, bogey; akin to Greek mormō bogey
Date: 15th century
1 : causing fear, dread, or apprehension "a formidable prospect"
2 : having qualities that discourage approach or attack
3 : tending to inspire awe or wonder : impressive

Um. He said "fer-MIT-able," like permissible. And then he lost us. He also lost us with the whole "If we help Iraq, we save ourselves thing." Bah.

We know. We should bring statistics when we start preaching. But we don't have any. We just have a thought: Fix America first. Fix rampant homelessness and poverty. Fix hatred. Fix senseless NCLB. Fix our government, and our people.

And do it without bloodshed.

Charlie Gibson reported that Bush's plan calls for keeping troops in Iraq through the next President's first term. We don't know whether to cry or move to Canadia.

Again.

We feel especially old.

We realized, while reading this month's, um, issue, that our favorite playmate of all time appeared in the October 1987 issue, 20 years ago next month.

Then we remembered innocence and childhood and daggum if we didn't get daggum old right quick. Ah. To be 12 and thinking Ric Flair really would beat Hulk Hogan if given the chance. And to be in love with Brandi Brandt.

How to really do it.

Energy? Check.
Know the words? Check.
Audience participation? Check.
Lock and key chain? Check.
Treach, ripped? Check.

See? It's really not that hard, right?

*cough*

We are pretty much the worst sick person ever, so we'll make this short and sweet.

The Eagles signed Reno Mahe, the punt returner they cut because they had another punt returner they also cut, to field punts Monday night against the *first place* Redskins.

Our head hurts, and it might not be the cold.

Overheard. At work!

Secretary: This came from the N-W-A-C-P.
Guy in next cube: The N-what?
Secretary: N-W-A-C-P, right? What's that stand for?
GINC: The National Americ-- wait. The National Association for the Advancement of (whispers just the next word) Colored People.
Secretary: Oh. OK. What's the initials?
GINC: N. Double A. C. P.

The New York Post wins.

So the subhead in today's Post reads: PORKY POP-TARD BORES AND JIGGLES LIKE JELL-O AT UNDERWHELMING MTV VMAs.

Harsh, much? True, yes. But man, girl has feelings, no? Feelings of love for her children and family and God's will. Let's leave the poor thing alone. Granted, she might want to try *singing* during the big comeback, not, um, we can't even call it lip-syncing. It really was that bad.

Alright. No more with Brit-Brit. We have a li'l more than 90 posts left, and we shant be wasting any more space on her.

And this is probably the tame one.

From Rich Hoffman of the Philadelphia Daily News:

And now we know that not anybody can catch a punt. Boy, do we know.

When asked if he was apprehensive at the prospects of a virgin punt returner, Reid admitted yesterday, "Yeah." Then he added, "I thought they'd do a good job, though."

But they didn't. They were abominable. We will never again see punt returning this bad in a single game because it is impossible to be worse than Lewis and Reed were yesterday against the Packers. Lewis made a sufficient number of bad decisions that the coach felt forced to give him the hook in the second half and turn the chores over to Reed - who has been cut by four teams in the last year, including the Eagles.

"Neither one of them had [experience], but J.R. probably had more than what Greg had," Reid said, explaining why he made the change in the middle of the game. "I just thought I'd get a better look at him."

For the record, at one point yesterday we thought about trading allegiances to all things Philly sports to, say, all things Phoenix. We could enjoy the Diamondbacks and Cardinals. Both have pretty sweet uniforms. Then we could root for the Suns, whom we've admired from afar ever since they stole Barkley from the Sixers.

Phoenix has the Coyotes, too, and nice weather. We like coyotes. Who doesn't? They're so cute and predatory.

Huh. It's just, well, this whole not only losing, but losing in the most random way, is getting really, really tiresome.

And our reader questions why we didn't watch the futbol last night. We did, but we got tired of seeing the Cowboys and Giants catch things. And hey, how about 80 points between the two last night? Wow. Too bad we were sleeping.

Um. Huh. Well. See. But. Huh. Wow. Damn.

Live blogging the VMAs!* So about the whole Britney comeback thing...

Brit-Brit is all-all look-look at my somewhat flat stomach and mommy hips and my push-up bra and I'm not even going to look like I'm even trying to lip sync, y'all, and watch my sweet dancer moves and oops! Look! I almost flashed my good girl and I'm still dancing with barely any clothes on and hey, why does every random shot of a celebrity in the audience make them look bored and somewhat mocking me and look, y'all, I grabbed this nice gay boy's junk and yup, I'm still on stage and sheesh, this dancing thing is tiring, y'all and look, here's my booty and I know there are strippers at Golden Palace or Adult Playhouse or Scores that have better or at least comparable moves and why am I so scared on the inside these days I think I'm so cracking and thank God for Jenna Jameson and Courtney Love or I'd be so winning the death pool and seriously about the strip clubs, seriously, please hire me I think my career is so over and man, I'm tired, y'all. I can't wait to get off this stage and suck down another back-up danc, er, I mean, Red Bull and I can't wait 'til Sarah Silverman comes on stage and destroys me, y'all!

*Not live blogging them anymore. This sh*t is so ridiculously self-felatiating. And man, when did John Norris become Flea and what's up with the eyeshadow?

So the other day we were totally caught bellowing "Into the Mystic" while stopped at a red light, and then tonight...

While sitting at the ol' laptop, getting much-needed work done, we found ourselves singing along, in our best soprano, the following: "It's all because of you. I'm feelin' sad and blue. You went away. Now my life is filled with rainy days. I love you so. How much you'll never know-uh-ooooh, 'cause you took your dope away from me."

We rule.

MTV News: "After rehearsal, she went to Wendy's for a late night snack..."

So we might tune into the VMAs tonight just to see if she still has "it." We know the answer is no, but we're trying to stay positive. Besides, we hate the Cowboys and Giants and we're still stunned that the *Redskins* are in first place in the NFC East.

About the Eagles...

When we go to work, we wake up, eat, do bathroom stuff, shower, put on a suit, put the ol' pomade in our hair, walk to our car and drive to work. We do all these things because it's how we get to work. It's what we expect ourselves to do to get to work. When we get to work, we walk somewhat confidently up four flights of stairs to avoid people riding the painfully slow elevator, and when we get to our cubicle, we get to work. We type. We talk. We take pee breaks. But we work. Then we drive home, go for a run, try to eat a healthy dinner and then, sadly, wake up the next day and do the same routine all over again, only with a different suit.

It's the same with any profession, really.

Like lawyers who go to court and litigate and bill hours. Or nurses who check blood pressure. Or football players who catch a daggum punt or two kicked their way, especially with the daggum motherf*cking game on the line the first week of the daggum motherf*cking season.

Note to self: don't get your hopes up. Again.

We've got dreams, um, you know.

In no particular order, last night's involved us driving a fire truck through Boston and over a bridge. We couldn't turn around and the brakes barely worked. We turned the sirens on at one point and thought, "Eff it, let's just drive this thing 'til it runs out of gas."

Then there was the one where we took the stage and the bar manager cut the power. We have this one a lot.

And then the other night, we were playing softball and we faked like we missed the pick-off throw. When we ran toward the "ball," we grabbed a golf ball and feigned trying to throw it while the runner broke for home. We then discarded said golf ball and threw a perfect and easy strike home to nail the runner. The other team claimed shenanigans, and we might have yelled, "Hey, whadayagonnado?" at them. Then we woke up.

We think we were playing for the Phillies in this dream. Why they're playing softball, well, we're sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

We have the cutest Godson ever.

Oh how we love Double A and how he lets us hold him while gently banging a balloon off his head and saying, "Oof" while doing it.

We took the points

So this is why we rarely ever bet. The Colts beat the Saints 41-10 last night. We picked the Saints, and, um, the six points, we think.

"No way the Colts win a Super Bowl and come out on fire," we thought. "Who does that?"

So the Colts do that. Oops.

*Special programming alert: this marks the 900th post in the history of the Porch in the Parking Lot. What does this mean for you, the viewer? It means we continue our torrid hot streak of bringing the funny through 1,000. Then, with the 1,000th post, we officially retire.

Yay for pension!

"That was beautiful."

To this day, this still makes us so, so happy.

This is the year!

So the Phillies who this time last week were about eight hours from giving up five runs in the eighth (they came back and won, but whatevs), played the Braves yesterday -- a team the Mets swept over the weekend.

Leading 8-2 in the *eighth* inning, the Phillies gave up four runs. They then came back out for the ninth and gave up, um, three.

Ballgame.

"I can't believe what happened," said Charlie Manuel, who is still considered by some, and no, not Old Man Snap, as Manager of the Year material. "I've never seen anything like that."

Um. We did. Last week.

The team's bullpen isn't even in shambles. It's a nightmare. Sure, we once walked eight consecutive batters in our first pitching assignment when we were 7, but, um, we think we, bum-shoulder and all, could at least get some outs.

We're torn, really. After what we saw last week against the Mets, we think the Phillies could tell naysayers to eff off and make a run. But then, well, yesterday happened.

Damnit.

Oopsies.

From the New York Times: GARDEN CITY, N.Y., Sept. 4 — The eight women visited Long Island this summer along with vacationing families and other business travelers, staying in hotels and motels in commercial strips in middle-class suburbs like East Garden City, Hicksville and Woodbury. Their ages ranged from 20 to 32.

Three had come all the way from the San Francisco Bay area, one from Miami. Two lived less than 60 miles away, in Newark and Elizabeth, N.J. and two even closer, in Brooklyn.

All eight were arrested on prostitution charges here, snared in a new sting operation by the Nassau County police that focuses on Craigslist.org, the ubiquitous Web site best known for its employment and for-sale advertisements but which law enforcement officials say is increasingly also used to trade sex for money.

Nassau County has made more than 70 arrests since it began focusing on Craigslist last year, one of numerous crackdowns by vice squads from Hawaii to New Hampshire that have lately been monitoring the Web site closely, sometimes placing decoy ads to catch would-be customers.

"Craigslist has become the high-tech 42nd Street, where much of the solicitation takes place now,” said Richard McGuire, Nassau’s assistant chief of detectives. “Technology has worked its way into every profession, including the oldest."

Our goodness the interwebs can be used for evil, no?

This is fantastic. We know this.

From the AP: The mayor of a Siberian oil town has ordered his bureaucrats to stop using expressions such as "I don't know" and "I can't." Or look for another job.

Alexander Kuzmin, the 33-year-old mayor of Megion, has banned these and 25 other phrases as a way to make his administration more efficient, his spokeswoman said Tuesday.

"It's a suggestion to the staff that they should think before saying something," Oksana Shestakova said by telephone. "To say `I don't know' is the same as admitting your helplessness."

Our boss says she doesn't know all the damn time. She also abruptly gets off the phone because she "has to go" all the damn time when we have questions about big, important, things. We've often wished she'd end up in Siberia, but we didn't realize she could actually get her learn on there.

Yay! Political insight!

So the President is all "I'm salutin'" and the troops are all thanks for coming but we'd probably like to be home at the beach next summer so we can sit in traffic for like ever Sunday night and barbecue with our, we don't know, *families* on Monday and Bush is all, "Soon, folks, but you see here, we got this war I said we won four years ago but we're still fightin' it now 'cause that's how we do" and J.T. is all I can see us holding hands, walkin' on the beach our toes in the sand and shout out to the troops in Iraq while I do this shot of Tequilla and roll naked in my millions after my HBO show with my stunning good looks, charm and abs and the President is *still* all, "Don't believe the hype, y'all, and trust me, we need to stay the course and be focused and wait, who brought that mirror? I told you people not to bring mirrors around me because when I see that there reflection there, I look like my daddy and it scares me somethin' fierce."

Just to clarify.

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Pisces Monthly Horoscope for September: This month you focus on communication. Sure, you're always pretty communication-oriented, but starting on the 1st and continuing all month long, what you're saying and thinking and feeling is even more profound and important than usual. You could be in the middle of some big life changes, so it's important that you express all of your thoughts, feelings and ideas. It's fine, of course, to keep some of it to yourself, though. Not expressing is a form of freedom of self-expression too. On the 5th and 6th, be sure to get out and have some fun. By the 11th, you're focused on relationships. This could well overlap with your professional activities -- whether you're a poet or a psychotherapist, relationships probably play a major role in your work. On the 16th, be careful not to exhaust yourself. You need to take time to recharge. By the 21st, you know what you want and how to get it. On the 24th and 25th, there's nothing you can't do. And you're having such a wonderful time doing all of it! On the 30th, you end the month with a busy day. Try to make a little time in all of the craziness to reflect on everything that's happened this month, emotionally and spiritually. You could be impressed!

In case you wondered, complete in haiku!

Best. Vacation. EH.
VER. Oh with the happiness.
Work? What work? When? Where?

We love thee Guinness
You of lovely thick goodness
Oh with the Advil.

Five-plus hours trip!
Boston on the hottest day!
Who runs in this sh*t?

Ev'ry Rose Has Its --
No. No. We don't kiss and tell.
But the geetar works.

Our favorite place.
Peace and coffee and relief.
Too bad we're sweating.



Monday Night Raw! Live!
We're too old for this! We know!
Heroes. Steriods. Ech.

U S A! U S!
Wait. Hacksaw is fighting a
guy from New York. Sh*t.



Yawn. Two matches. Two.
Damnit. Interviews again.
Too. Old. For. This. *Sigh*

Back to bar woohooo!
Miranda Lambert serve us
We love bartenders.

Ah. Walking is nice.
Ev'rywhere. Down to river.
Up. Down. Nice town, this.

Four hour drive home!
Whew. A day to detox booze.
Phils-Mets on? Beer please.

Friday Night Lights yay!
15 hours of goodness!
Oh pretty Lila.

Golfing! Fore! Duck!
We lost three balls on hole one.
We have new shoes, though.

Day 5 Phils-Mets game!
Phils up four! Two innings left!
Mets score five! F*ck! Sh*t!

Ah! There's Chase Utley!
We bought his shirt and nice with
the game-winning hit!



We believe in them!
OK. We don't really but
We hope and we pray.

FNL again!
Saracen is maturing.
No Smash! No drugs, no!

Whew. Geetar time.
Save Tonight. Practice. Dream. Play.
No autographs though.

YAY! Beach! Sunburn!
Water! Water in ears! What?
Can't hear you. Wax. Ew.

Panthers go'n win State!
We cried for the 15th time
We're OK with this.



And now sleep. Rest up.
Back to work! We can't wait! Yay!*
*We can wait. Hate. Work.