And You Thought Steroids Were No Laughing Matter

Testosterone, steroids, PEDs, or performance enhancers.

Anyway you say it, it means one thing: We can’t stop talking about them—or rather we can’t stop talking about the people who abuse themselves with them.

 

Honestly, I think the whole “steroids in baseball” thing is a welcome reprieve from reality TV, and a lot more interesting than Who’s Got Kate’s Eight or whatever that show is called, but one thing doesn’t make sense.

 

I thought baseball players volunteered for the 2003 test that put them on that “list.”

 

Don’t get me wrong—taking steroids is unacceptable—but a secret list of men on ‘roids is as dangerous as parading the Chippendale dancers past a crowd of desperate housewives.

 

That “list” is like a who’s who of “men I’d love to…” Well, let’s just say we shall heretofore refer to it as the “MILF list.”

 

But who’s leaking the names?

 

It’s not me. I only leak when I sneeze.

 

My money’s on Dr. Evil. I’ll bet he’s in bed with one of the lawyers who feeds victims from the list to the New York Times in return for derivative tips on how the announcement will affect Wall Street.

 

And I think Dr. Evil has developed an undetectable method of performance enhancement and has a team of slaves he’s collected and injected for league domination.

 

On that note, Dr. Evil could only be a girl. And I’ll bet she’s mad that Alex Rodriguez wouldn’t sleep with her.

 

That’s the answer – a woman scorned. Nothing’s more vindictive. Just ask Lorena Bobbitt. Except Lorena could actually find what she wanted to cut off her husband.

 

Whoa! Did I just say that?

 

That’s the ironic thing—when you use steroids to enhance your performance, your package gets smaller.

 

Hey, if someone needed advice on enhancing something, they should have asked me. I can make my 32As look like decent points with a few tissues and some duct tape. My only regret in life is that Fox cancelled The Swan before they chose me as a contestant.

 

Trust me, I’m qualified.

 

Speaking of TV…We all watch PHL17, CSN, and occasionally, Fox and ESPN, to see all our favorite Phillies games, but not one has passed where Cialis or Viagra wasn’t promoted during the game to enhance your performance after the game.

 

And the new AndroGel “T level” Enhancer wasn’t designed to increase your IQ. Ironically, when it does its job, it will decrease your level of intelligence, so the “T” definitely doesn’t stand for “thought,” yet their ads are placed strategically within the Daily News reports on major league baseball.

 

Is that hypocrisy?

 

I hope so. I love hypocrisy. Actually it’s quite good on toast.

 

I’m sorry. That last line was taken straight from Shrek. But it’s such a choice line I couldn’t help myself.

 

I better be careful. People will accuse me of using comedy-enhancing methods. God knows I have to do something—I gave up comedy-enhancing drugs a few years ago. But that’s not to say they’re not rampant.

 

Matter of fact, I wonder how many bloggers are using writing-enhancing drugs as we speak.

 

Huh! And all this time I thought I was blogging on a level playing field.

 

That’s why I propose we start drug-testing bloggers. Sure posting blogs is something people do for free, but how many of them are spelling while under the influence or worse yet, using grammar to get high.

 

This calls for an intervention!

 

I think our industry needs its own twelve-step program.

 

And I have just the one. Fortunately for all those with busy lifestyles, it’s a time-saver. There are three simple steps:

 

1.      Get

2.      A

3.      Life

 

There. I’ve said it.

 

Admit it. Steroids are like a Victoria’s Secret catalog – they’re everywhere.

 

Matter-of-fact when my babysitter came with her bags of tricks and pulled forth her favorite DVD, my 10-year-old took a gander at the cover and said, “It looks like Shrek is on performance-enhancing drugs.”

 

Hey, it wasn’t as bad as when he donned a dish towel as a cape and ran past her, proclaiming, “I’m Cialis man!”

 

No industry is immune. Some type of performance-enhancement method has been used in virtually every professional sport: the NFL, the MLB, horseracing, NASCAR, and biking are just a few that come directly to mind. I’m sure the only reason I haven’t heard of them everywhere is simply because I don’t know everything.  

 

And that’s hard for me to admit.

 

Just ask my husband.

 

I think our obsession with the witch hunt is it fulfills our need to be disappointed in people.

 

We’re obsessed with making others live up to the standards we place on them simply because we’ve spent a buck to fulfill some egotistical need.

 

I’m guilty of it. Personally my beef with players doing steroids is they were blessed with a talent possessed by few, and they’ve exploited it.

 

But you could apply that to Michael Vick and Donte Stallworth, among others.

 

They were born with a gift. Straight from the factory, a lightning bolt was installed in their arm or jet packs affixed to their heels. They were born a head above the crowd while the rest of us were dropped with a chip on our shoulders.

 

All they had to do was use their God-given talent to obtain world domination, but they chose to waste it. They ruined it for themselves while ruining our hopes for them.

 

We wanted them to show us what real gods were. We wanted someone physical we could believe in.

 

Because we have no reason to believe in ourselves.

 

Let’s face it. They’re not gods—they’re just people. They’re just sports figures. They’re just doing the best they can with what they have and they look good on a cereal box.

 

And when that’s not enough, they enhance themselves.

 

We all do. That’s what Creatine, Red Bull, Viagra, Lasik, Botox, Spandex, and Certs are all about.

 

And how many natural blondes do you know?

 

We’re all just increasing our odds of making it.

 

What’s my point?

 

I don’t have two nice ones so I better come up with something.

 

Here it is: that list was a confidential collection of MILFs who participated in a test under the terms of an agreement with the MLB.

 

Anyone who disseminates information from that list should be prosecuted just like they’re trying to do to the guys whose names were leaked.

 

And I think Lorena Bobbitt should man the guillotine.

 

That list should have been destroyed. Much like my Christmas list last year, it was something controversial and private.

 

I never meant for Shane Victorino to know I asked Santa to abduct him, roll him in gift-wrap, and set him under my tree. I’m sure the union has rules against that. And I’m sure those regulations require a potty break.

 

But this list is being distributed and I would simply like to know who’s leaking the names.

 

I say it was Alex Rodriguez in the bedroom with the nanny.

 

Whoops…wrong game. I meant Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick.

 

Speaking of that, how lethal is a candlestick anyway? I’ve never heard of someone being accosted by a criminal with a candlestick. Don’t let Al Qaeda hear about the versatile candlestick. That would start a whole other concern at airport security.

 

Allow me to ramble on.

 

Where was I?

 

Oh, yeah. I’m tired of people alleging, accusing, and peeing in the pool. From the moment steroids were discovered, everyone knew how they’d be used, so any league that didn’t jump on the opportunity to ban them is as responsible for their use as the guys who used them.

 

And I could care less if users are inducted into the Hall of Fame. I think it’s true that major league baseball has taken a wrap worse than any other professional sport, but once I leave this world that’ll be the farthest thing from my mind.

 

And a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

 

I saw that on TV, so it must be true.

 

I just like watching the game. I like squeeze plays at home, double steals, and grand slam home runs. I like Shane Victorino and Jayson Werth, and after I die, I’m going to peek at them in the shower.

 

Then I’ll go sit in that booth in the sky with Harry Kalas and continue enjoying my Philadelphia Phillies from cloud nine.

 

There might be more to life than baseball, but there’s nothing more than baseball in the afterlife.

 

Just ask Harry.

 

On that note, as far as this topic is concerned, “I’m outta here.”

 

See you at the ballpark.