I have a confession to make.

I'm in love with another man.

Oh, it's okay. My husband knows about it. In fact, he's done nothing but encourage this whole sordid affair. It's kind of endearing.

I'm in love with contract year Pat Burrell. Oh, sure, I make jokes about his funny syphilis and his deeply questionable fashion sense, but the man is hitting like his ass is on fire. (Normally, I would say that his ass was on fire because of the clap, but this is a kinder, gentler Maggie talking.)

He's ranked second in the NL in home runs. (Behind only My Boyfriend Chase Utley, mind you.) He's ranked second in the NL in RBI, third in slugging percentage (an eye-popping .670), and fourth in both OBP and OPS. It's not just the hitting, either. He's working counts like it's his job- 24 BBs so far, and we're barely into May.

The hitting? Has been clutch, too. In other years, seeing him stroll up to the plate with two outs on the board in a tie game would have been met with the gnashing of teeth and the rending of various garments, as he would have inevitably struck out and launched us into extra innings. Not Contract Year Pat Burrell. Contract Year Pat Burrell worked the count full, and then turned and launched one into the stratosphere. Game over, Phils win, everybody goes home happy.

The whole season has been full of moments like that- big hits just when the team needed them, diving catches to get the team out of innings. Hell, the fact that he's actually hustling for the ball once in a while is a major improvement.

Which only makes me sad when I think about it too much. He's having an amazing year (and put together a solid season last year, mind you, putting the team on his back when Utley was out with a broken wrist and soldiering through) and is set to make a lot of money when his contract with the Phils expeires at the end of the season. And, let's face it, he's not making that money with the Phillies.

My husband keeps musing aloud that he wonders if the Yankees would sign Burrell. I've taken to just glaring at him and muttering darkly under my breath every time he does.

Pat's said that he wants to stay in Philadelphia when he's done. This has to be a total lie, as the poor man has taken absolute rafts of shit from the Boo Birds in the outfield.(Occasionally, I've booed him from my seat in center, but that's usually because he's been too busy staring at the ball girl to, you know, field.) I'd love to keep him around, if only because his manwhorishness makes me laugh. I'm not, however, holding my breath. He's going to make the single female population of another city very, very happy next year.


Ladies: Take care of him, and take care of his fine, fine ass. (What? I can't ogle? Bullshit. He does it all the time.)

Keep. It. In. Your. Pants. Please.

Question: Does anybody but Maggie care about soccer if I tell you a story about drugs and a trio of tranny prostitutes and a three-time FIFA world footballer of the year? Can I get you to care then?

So yes. Ronaldo (AC Milan, not Man U, sadly) drops his girlfriend off, goes and picks up three hookers, does some drugs, if you believe the hookers, and then flips shit when he discovered that his hookers came with a bonus feature. And I am left laughing my ass off, because...really? Three tranny hookers? I mean, one was enough for Eddie Murphy. (Note: If Cristiano Ronaldo ever gets caught with three tranny hookers, you will hear my whoops of sheer glee from space, because I hate that bastard and I hope he hurts himself in spectacular fashion in just enough time to lose Man U the championship. And I'm an Arsenal supporter, so the fact that I want Chelsea to win? Should say something.)

Look, I know it's no 'Roger Clemens took a FIFTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL to his hotel room the night he met her, but they totally waited until she was legal to have sex. No, seriously. Why are you looking at me like that?' (Which, side note: Euuurrrrrgh. Seriously. I can't even mock it any more, because I am far too fucking grossed out and depressed by the entire thing. Like, where the fuck were her parents? What the fuck was he thinking? And who picks up a fifteen year old girl and takes her to his hotel room? This ain't Thailand, Rog. We have laws against that.)

And hey, speaking of inappropriateness with the youngsters and kicking it up a notch for it being your own daughter, does someone want to explain to me why Hulk Hogan appears to be rubbing sunblock on his own daughter's ass? I just...I quit. I can't do this any more.

My point is, this week has been a bit crazy for athletes that can't keep their dick in their pants. I'd advise noted manwhore Kyle Farnsworth to maybe keep it zipped up while he serves his suspension for nearly beaning Manny Ramirez. Who knows what could happen if that crazy motherfucker got into trouble? I'm guessing it would involve several surface to air missiles, an army of midgets, at least six donkey shows and a trumpet, just for fun.

Here, have a picture of reformed manwhore Pat Burrell. (I say reformed only because he's a newlywed. I don't really believe it.) That's not sweat glinting off his shoulders. That's the funny syphilis.