Phillies Nation


No Excuse

This is the true story of 25 strangers, picked to play on a team and have their lives taped, and find out what happens when people stop being polite and start getting REAL. The Real World, Philadelphia!

In this episode, the gang as usual hangs out in Old City, tossing back martini’s and shots of Jäger, spewing their best game on unsuspecting ladies. 

“Hey baby, I play for the Phillies, wanna get freaky?”

“Like, oh my God, it’s Pat Burrell!! I totally love you!”

“Well, actually, I’m Jason Michaels, but Pat and I are boys.  Let’s roll back to the Irish Pub and me you and him and have some fun.”

“Eww, skeevy, nevermind.”

Dejected by his failed advances and his overshadowing by the other house jock from Florida, Jason turns his attention to the scantly clad bartender at 32 degrees.  Unfortunately everything but his drink order falls on deaf ears.  Eventually 3 am hits, and he stumbles out the door hazily eyeing a slice of pepperoni from Margarita’s.  As he steps out, one of Philly’s finest, as he does every night at the witching hour, pushes the crowd along in his toughest cop voice;  but Jason is having none of it.  “Do you know who I am?” he retorts.  The cop pays no attention and instead hastily moves the other clubbers along.  “Do you know who I am?! I’m Jason Michaels, mo fo, I do what I want!”  The cop, losing patience, approaches our inebriated friend.  Standoff!  Michaels assumes the fighters stance, lunges forward, and , the unassuming cop is punched in the face.  Oh, but he’s not done yet, Jason continues to pummel the uniformed member of the PPD until backup arrives and saves him.  Uh oh, Jason you’re going to jail.

Oh Jason, my poor boy.  You are a city-wide, if not national, celebrity and you punch a police officer.  There is no excuse.  In all our drunken endeavors and in all our run-ins with the law, this is something everyone remembers no matter how many Red-Bulls and Grey Gooses (Grey Geese?) you’ve downed – do not punch a cop.  I’ll listen to your side of the story, but it won’t matter:  You don’t hit girls and you don’t hit cops.  You are truly a meathead and an embarassment to the city, the ball club, MLB in general, and the surname Michael. 

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