Porch pirates stole Christmas and Donna Kelce goes full ‘Traitors’ | Weekly Report Card

Every Philly-adjacent viral saga eventually ends the same way: not with a plot twist, but with probation.

The Delco Pooper (a title no one asked for but Delaware County fully delivered) finally reached the unglamorous end of her moment in the internet sun this week. Instead of a trial, Christina Solometo entered a first-time offender program that includes probation, community service, anger management, and a strict “no posting about this” rule that feels tailor-made for someone who briefly became a meme.

If she completes it all, her record could be wiped clean. Which feels… both reasonable and deeply unceremonious, given how loudly this story echoed across the internet.

Here’s the thing: This was never really a crime story. It was a spectacle. A perfect storm of road rage, cell phone video, Delco energy, and a news cycle that will absolutely stop to rubberneck if given the chance. The moment went viral because it was shocking and absurd, not because anyone was asking for a legal reckoning.

And now, like most viral Philly chaos, it fizzles out in a courtroom with no cameras and a lot less laughter.

The C grade isn’t about whether the punishment fits the offense. It’s about the strange disconnect between how massive this story became and how ordinary its ending is. Two years of probation and some mandated self-reflection doesn’t feel dramatic. But maybe that’s the point. Real life isn’t a meme, and viral notoriety doesn’t translate to anything meaningful once the internet moves on.

If a quarterback hands you a touchdown ball, that’s not a loan. That’s a gift. And if the allegations in this lawsuit are even mostly true, what followed was one of the most aggressively uncool things the NFL industrial complex could’ve done to a fan.

Jalen Hurts scored, made history, and chose a guy in an Eagles jersey to share the moment with. That should’ve been the end. Instead, according to the suit, it turned into security, state police, and multiple officials allegedly insisting the fan return the ball, including being told he’d be “breaking the law” if he didn’t.

Yes, historic game balls matter. Yes, teams want them back. But there is a time-honored, normal-person solution here: You ask nicely, you offer a jersey or autographs, everyone leaves happy. What you don’t do is allegedly escalate a good-vibes moment into a stadium-security fever dream.

If this played out the way it’s described, the failure wasn’t policy. It was vibes. You can’t spend all week saying fans are the heart of the game and then, on Sunday, treat one like he stole the Declaration of Independence.

That said — and this is where Philly clears its throat — declaring you’re no longer an Eagles fan over it is… a lot. We’ve survived the Vet, Santa, and several entire seasons of Chip Kelly. Eagles fandom is not something you simply return at the gate like a confiscated football.

So yes: If the ball was forcibly taken back, that’s deeply uncool and deserves a D. But also: Buddy, you still bleed green. You just had a very bad day at MetLife.

Every winter, Philadelphia relearns the same brutal lesson: The stoop is not a safe place, especially in December. This week’s Philly Reddit reminder came courtesy of a transplant who made it almost a full year without incident, a rare and beautiful run, only to have a Christmas package stolen. Not electronics. Not sneakers. Homemade cookies from an aunt. The kind of theft that doesn’t just steal stuff, but steals joy.

The comments quickly turned into a familiar group therapy session: delivery drivers who won’t ring the bell, packages sitting untouched until they’re suddenly gone, neighbors debating whether knocking on strangers’ doors makes you a Good Samaritan or a suspect on Ring footage. One person suggested fake poop packages. Another admitted they stopped ordering anything between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. Several people basically said, “Welcome. This is Philly.”

The frustrating part is that everyone involved is kind of right and kind of powerless. Drivers are overworked. Neighbors want to help but don’t want to be mistaken for thieves. And the data back up the collective misery: Package theft reports are up again this year, with December doing what December always does and accounting for a disproportionate share of the pain.

The unofficial Philly solution, as always, is community. Grab your neighbor’s packages. Knock if you see a box sitting too long. Use lockers if you can. Put up a sign that says “PLEASE RING THE BELL” and hope for the best.

Wawa once again reminded Pennsylvania who the main character is. The Delco-born convenience store giant is still the state’s largest private company. And while Sheetz’s revenue took a 20% tumble, Wawa kept cruising, widening the gap like a hoagie wrapper slowly unpeeling in victory.

Sure, Wawa’s revenue dipped slightly on paper. In reality? The lights were on, the coffee was hot, and no one has ever stress-cried in a Wawa parking lot at 2 a.m. wishing they were at Sheetz instead. That’s brand power you can’t spreadsheet.

Sheetz hired more people. Wawa hired none of our doubts. It’s expanding, it’s everywhere, and it continues to dominate the only metric that truly matters in this region: where people go when they’re tired, hungry, and emotionally fragile.

Only in Philadelphia would one of the longest lines at the Christmas Village be for a booth selling completely unknown items in heavily taped boxes. No cocoa, no ornaments, no guarantees. Just curiosity, chaos, and the real possibility you’re paying $25 for either a diamond bracelet or a deadbolt.

Hundreds of people a day are voluntarily handing over cash for packages nobody ordered, nobody claimed, and nobody is allowed to peek inside. It’s reckless. It’s hopeful. It’s the purest form of “eh, sure” spending this city has ever embraced.

Watching grown adults aggressively shake mystery mail like they’re working airport security is peak Philly behavior. So is opening it immediately, accepting your fate, and announcing it’s “actually perfect” no matter what comes out. Lacy lingerie? Seasonal. Random hardware? Useful. Animal pregnancy tests? That’s a story you’ll be telling for years.

This hut works because it removes all the pressure of gift-giving. You didn’t pick a bad present — the box did. And now it’s everyone’s problem.

Some cities do traditional Christmas markets. Philly sells you a taped-up question mark and says, “Good luck.”

Credit where it’s due: The Phillies actually identified a problem and spent real money fixing it. That alone deserves applause.

Brad Keller isn’t a flashy closer signing or a back-page splash, but he’s exactly what this bullpen has been screaming for: a legit, high-leverage righty who doesn’t make everyone start bargaining with the universe in the seventh inning. A 2.07 ERA, a fastball that suddenly touches 97, and proof he can handle pressure without combusting? We’ll take it.

This is also a refreshing break from the Phillies’ recent bullpen habit of “maybe this guy will be fine” optimism. Keller isn’t a flier. He’s a bet. And at two years, $22 million, it’s a smart one. Not cheap, not reckless, just intentional. That’s new.

Is there risk? Of course. Relievers are famously fragile creatures. But after last postseason’s bullpen roulette wheel, it’s hard to argue this team didn’t need another arm they can trust when the game tightens and the stadium starts vibrating.

The best part: This move signals awareness. Dave Dombrowski didn’t pretend last year’s formula was good enough. He didn’t wait for July. He didn’t say “internal options” and hope everyone forgot October.

No parade yet. But for once, the Phillies didn’t ignore the fire and buy another rug.

Donna Kelce entering a Scottish castle to scheme, lie, and possibly backstab for $250,000 feels less like reality TV casting and more like destiny. Yes, she technically gave birth to two NFL stars in different cities. But let’s be clear: Jason Kelce played his entire Hall of Fame career here, wore a Mummers parade costume, screamed about underdogs, and permanently imprinted his mom onto the city’s cultural fabric. Donna Kelce is Philly now.

Watching her plot alongside Johnny Weir (a Coatesville native, also claimed) is just icing on the Tastykake. While the rest of the cast is stacked with reality-show professionals who’ve been training for deception their whole lives, Donna’s superpower is subtler: calm mom energy and the ability to disappoint you with one look. That’s lethal in a game like this.

Also, the idea of Donna Kelce quietly maneuvering through a castle while reality stars spiral feels extremely on brand. She has raised elite athletes, survived Super Bowl media weeks, and somehow stayed likable through all of it. A few traitors don’t stand a chance.

If she wins, we’re counting it as a hometown victory. If she betrays someone? Even better.