Philly Cars Turn Over Fans in World Series Celebration

PHILADELPHIA, PA – A barrage of violence swept through the City of Brotherly Love in the wake of the hometown Phillies winning their first championship in 28 years. There were the usual cases of men and women who have wasted the prime of their adult years caring for a sick, demanding parent seeing Brad Lidge striking out the last Tampa Ray hitter as a cover to apply a smelly pillow to the face of the human roadblock to a better, freer life; of pre-med students pounding their shirtless chests and screaming about how WE are number one and thereby doing violence to any chance they will ever have of gaining entrance into medical school once the footage is downloaded onto YouTube for posterity; and of cars being turned over, whose owners will now spend the next three years paying extra on their auto insurance so that unemployed young men with tattoos on their necks can later brag about how a true fan will destroy the property of another fan when their team of mercenaries defeats another team of mercenaries. Then there was the new example of cars turning the tables on the testosterone-inflated fan base, as it were, by flipping over humans.

At Cottman and Frankford Avenues, a ’98 Camaro wearing a mullet began turning over people talking in nasally accents, and then standing on its rear wheels and pounding its automatic transmission and shouting, “Woooo! Phillies two-thousand-eight champs! Woooo!” One of the overturned humans was Edna St. Vincent Millay, who was sporting a green tube top emblazoned with the Phillies logo and who now has a broken neck and will be sipping through a straw her favorite entrée, red hot Buffalo wings, at Connie Mack’s Sports Bar.

At Kensington and Alleghany Avenues, a ‘94 Toyota Corolla -- proud owner of a black skinny mustache -- hoisted a number of bipedal celebrants into the air for a complete double gainer. The battered Japanese compact car was a huge fan of Phillies catcher, Carlos Ruiz, and so held up a single lug-nut from its right wheel, all the while gesticulating, “Panama, numero uno!”
On Broad Street in North Philly, an ’87 Cadillac with rotating rims, tinted glass and a stereo system whose base from a Fifty Cent rap song could be felt in Camden, New Jersey, flung two city cops into the air and onto their backs. The Caddy then lectured the ubiquitous TV cameras that it was all a white conspiracy to vote All-American honky, Cole Hamels, as the Series’ MVP when Jimmy Rollins should have won the award if not for the fact that the CIA had brainwashed his mother into calling him Jimmy instead of the black James, which had resulted in a .227 batting average and no RBIs.

The mayor of Philadelphia, Michael Nutter, denounced the senseless violence of the four-wheeled motorized conveyances toward the organic fans of the Phillies, calling it a “mark against the city, but pretty cool material for a Stephen King book.”

Said Northeast Philly resident, Sal Manella: “Whatever happened to the good old days when cars just sat there and enjoyed the game and let fat men fart all over them? Or when cars said nothing while their owners drove them drunk through a mob of celebrating fans who bashed in its windshield with a brick? Cars these days have no manners.”

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