The Philatelists won the World Series!

Congrats to the Reseda Philatelists, winner of the 2019 World Series, who edged out Tucson’s Grousin’ Bloodflukes in a nail biter of a photo finish under the hot lamps of the glitterati and the paparazzi here at the Lansdowne Racetrack, thus bringing to a conclusion 9 weeks of alarming rhetoric, high-handed boosterism, knock-kneed electioneering and three of the sauciest, fattest clam casseroles seen this side of the Chimenticook since well before the French laid claim to Coventry and there was naught in these parts but rough and doughty groomsmen as far the eye could see.

Nineteen times the Philatelists went to the wall, smoking their last ciggies and whining bitterly about the lack of bullets and nineteen times did the ‘Flukes yank back upon their sturdy crossbows, but nineteen times again did fly from the heavens the star-bedecked maidens and comely boyish youth of Elysium, casting the would-be perilous shafts to the clatterstones. Each time a tremendous exaltation would rise up from the greasy lips of the rabble, they who had laid many a stern and unredeemable wager on the fortunes of their hometown crew, the bumptious but smiling-eyed Philatelists. On that latest appearance of the celestial saviours, the earth itself sprang up in a spontaneous efflorescence of gazebos, as if to herald the birth of a new World Series winner and to enclose each player in a engarlanded gazebo of his or her very own.

In that still moment before the team captain tossed the winning bean-bag into the firepit, thus neatly enchaptering a whole drama that (hoo boy) we really don’t have time for here (holy shit tho, srsly, their team mascot is an aaaaaaasssssshoooooole), she was seen to doff her cap wistfully at the sweetly rolling foothills of Parsley Valley, wherein her beloved pony (Ixnay) was laid to rest, not more than four hours prior. Truly — it will be said — truly it was how the game was once played.