I got one friggin’ question for Mark McGwire … if performance-enhancing drugs don’t enhance your performance, bat rack, then why are they called ‘performance-enhancing drugs’?
I’d say the guy is smokin’ crack, but crack probably doesn’t have an any effect on him.
Whoever or whatever is controlling Big Mac — perhaps aliens, or maybe a wizard or Barry Bonds — has convinced him that he, Mark McGwire, is the only human on the planet that is immune to the effects of anabolic steroids. His physiology is different than the rest of us. He is a species of one.
Apparently this major piece of beefcake doesn’t think steroids had one iota of influence on his home run production; says the good Lord gave him the strength to be a home run hitter. Too friggin’ bad he didn’t give him enough strength to tell the truth. I’ll tell you what, pallie … you wanna see an enhanced performance? Watch the Costas interview. McGwire could get a guest shot on Inside the Actor’s Studio based on that. He’s got the quivering lip. He’s got the cracking voice. For a minute there I thought I was watching Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind. Criminy. Get me a tissue, Tito.
So I guess, according to the special sauce inside Big Mac’s head, the Olympic Committee ought to rescind their ban on performance-enhancing drugs. Right?
Lemme get this straight. A-Rod juiced because he had the burden of carrying around a $252 million contract on his shoulders???? Awwww, poor widdle baby. I’ll tell you what this pin cushion needed: a large, economy-size dose of Vito Corleone slapping him in the face and telling him to man-up.
Every friggin’ time I hear one of these pussies whining about the pressures of the money they’re making — to plaaaaay a sport, by the way, for a cruel and unusual 6 months a year — I wonder if they’d like to step into the well-worn shoes of some single mother who cleans hotel rooms for a living. You know, someone who doesn’t have two nickels to rub together for anything more extravagant than an extra helping of Top Ramen. THAT person knows what money pressure is, my friend, not a guy with a car collection.
But hey, I’ll play along. If A-Rod can’t stand the heat in the $250 million dollar kitchen, I got a very simple solution for him. Yeah, yeah, he doesn’t need it anymore — and regrets having juiced and is all very sorry, blah, blah, blah — cuz he supposedly stopped using when he slipped on the pinstripes. Uh huh. Are you telling me that Yankees fan pressure is less than Rangers fan pressure? That $275 million pressure is easier to take than $250 million pressure? That don’t add up, rocket scientists. I figure the guy has become a human voo doo doll since he’s been in the Bronx, and has probably done more juice than Minute Maid.
Of course, I could be wrong. He could be telling the truth. Yeah, and a monkey is gonna fly outta Jeter’s butt. All I’m sayin’ is that he lied to Tom Hicks (the guy who brought A-Rod to Texas). He lied to Katie Couric, which is like a big “so what,” but I’m trying to establish a pattern here. He fabricated all kinds of crap about the SI reporter, Selena Roberts, the woman that broke this story in the first place. And then you got the Madonna thing, and the stripper thing, and the fact that when a guy hits a weak grounder to the pitcher in a crucial situation in the ALCS and then pathetically tries to slap the ball out of the first baseman’s mitt, he simply can’t be trusted.
But like I said, there is an alternative to steroids for guys like A-Rod who can’t handle all that nasty-wasty pressure. Play for the minimum, fruitcakes. Play for the minimum. Otherwise, shut the hell up about how difficult life is while you’re lounging around one of your 9,000 sq. ft. swimming pools fantasizing about material girls. Or material middle-age women, as the case may be.
News flash: Barry Bonds tested positive for three types of steroids.
No freaking kidding.
Guess what else. It rains in Seattle. Yeah. And if you stick your hand in a fire you get burned. And, can you believe this? … Rod Blagojovich, a Chicago politician, is a crook. Yeah, a shocker. Know what else? If you fall out of a boat, you hit water. (Unless your name is Alfonso Sorriano and it’s the playoffs. Then, no.)
I gotta tell you though, all this hullabaloo over Bonds’ cheatin’ heart is starting to get on my nerves. I know it’s against the law and all, but I could give a crap if he lied to a Grand Jury. It’s not like he shot somebody or ‘accidentally’ forgot to pay $140,000 in taxes. Besides, everybody knows he used, so everybody knows he lied. The Grand Jury knows, baseball knows, Greg Anderson certainly knows, hell, even you latte-drinkin’ Giants fans who defend the guy know. I mean you gotta be living on another planet to look at the guy and think he’s clean. Arguing about it is like arguing over who won the game three days after the last out was recorded. The guy did it — look at him — so who gives a crap if he didn’t man-up in front of the Grand Jury?
Now, you wanna argue about something? Let’s talk records. Like the ones Bonds and McGwire misappropriated while at the same time acting like they had so much respect for the guys that set them. How do you honor Hank Aaron, what he went through, and his contribution to the game — and sports in general — when you cheat to break his career home run record? And what are you when you chemically transform your body to belittle the 61 yard shots that Maris hit in 1961? Let’s see … “ass hole” comes to mind.
The way I see it, the only way to know how good, say, A-Rod really is compared to guys like Ruth and Mantle would be to wind the clock back to before Madonna; before Kabbalah; before the $250 million contract; all the way back to the Mariners, and then make him smoke and drink and stay out all night, all season long. And for his whole career. Take a look at his numbers then, pallie. Hey, the guy is gifted, I’ll give you that. But on a level playing field, I think we’d be comparing him to Mickey Hatcher, not Mickey Mantle.
Anyway, as far as Bonds goes, it makes no sense to me to Al Capone the guy and try to hang him for lying to a Grand Jury. The real offense is the desecration of the records; records that were earned through talent and hard work, and in the face of adversity. I say, put the books back where they were before these guys started cooking them in the steroid kitchen. And then, open up a new wing in Cooperstown for Sammy and Barry and Clemens and the like that draws attention to what it is that they really brought to baseball; disgrace.