Everybody’s screaming about steroids. Steroids are bad! Steroids are horrible. Steroids are a curse. We spend all this time and money debating and policying and testing. I say we’ve got it all wrong. We should embrace steroids. Steroids are the future. It’s evolution. Its survival of the fittest, not the most drug-free. You think when the cave men were running from the saber-toothed tiger they had time to get drug tested. Hell no! Do you know why? Cuz they’d be dead that’s why. Look science is what separates us from the beast. That and porn on the internet. And weapons of mass destruction. You don’t see NASCAR doin’ cart and buggy races. Nobody wants a basketball game where short white guys shoot two handed set shots. Nobody wants to see skinny little dudes hit fly balls to the warning track. We don’t want slower 100 yard dashes. When I see a linebacker hunting down a flanker comin’ over the middle, I wanna see him take the guy’s head off, snap him in two, leave him a twisted wreck while he roars over the fallen warrior like a gladiator screaming triumphantly over a dead Christian.
I say we have two games. One for steroided athletes. The other for Naturals, we’ll call them. Let the roideds get as big as they want. Breed them so every generation gets bigger faster and stronger. Maybe if Marion Jones and Barry Bonds mated when they were chock full of human growth hormones they could produce and evolutionary marvel, a new missing link that takes us as a species to the next level. I mean come on. How cool would it be to see a baseball hit a thousand feet, a 100 meter dash in five seconds a golfer drive a drive on a 550 yard par five, the Tour de France winner racing the whole course without ever once stopping.
New ideas are scary. The all laughed at Christopher Columbus said the world was round. They laughed at Al Gore when he invented the internet. But who’s laughing now.
You can’t fight evolution. If you don’t believe me, go ask a dinosaur.
I say, instead of moaning and groaning about steroids, let’s make them our friend. If you wanna be a Natural, be a Natural, but if you don’t mean your reproductive organs shrivel and breaking out in acne and decreasing your life expectancy I say that’s your right. I for one relish the chance to see a 650lb shortstop hitting a 200 mph fastball outta the Grand Canyon.
Why professional golfers are whiny little bitches
I am a golfer. There I said it. I’m not ashamed. Okay, maybe a little, but not much. So naturally I spent the last four days watching the greatest golfers in the world compete in the Masters, one of golf’s most prestigious events. I was shocked and horrified, horrified and shocked as I watched one pampered, Pansy-assed, Candy-faced golfer after another whine, moan, and bitch about how bad they had it. “Oh, it’s so terrible, we hit the ball and we don’t know where it’s going, we never know where it’s going to end up. We can’t work under these conditions, golf isn’t the supposed be like this, it’s too hard, we don’t like it, we’re not having any fun out there.” Let me tell you something motherfucker, golf is not supposed to be easy. You’re supposed to suffer when you play golf. Golf is supposed to make you miserable and put you through the ringer, just like life. You think you had tough working conditions this weekend? My grandfather was a coal miner. When he went to work in the morning it was still dark, and he worked his ass off all day, and when he dragged himself up out of the mines, after his shift was over, it was dark again. This man went for days weeks without seeing the sun, toiling away in a coal mine while black lung disease was trying to do a hostile takeover of his respiratory system. That man had a hard job. That man had every reason to whine about how tough it was. But did he? No. Professional golfers whine. You want a hard job? Try being Pat Tillman. Now that guy had a hard job. I’d say having to worry about chili dipping a sand wedge doesn’t really hold a candle to having your head blown off by your own guys. If you don’t believe me go ask Sergeant Tillman about how tough it is to be a professional golfer. Oh that’s right, you can’t, he’s dead. I thought this Masters was one of the most entertaining spectacles I’ve ever seen him. It gave me such immense pleasure to watch all these superstars who live in the lap of luxury snivel and crawl their way around Augusta. But if you ask me, it wasn’t hard enough. I want them to make Augusta, and every other golf course the PGA plays on, a hundred times harder. I want to see these wankers go all Tin Cup, and hit one ball after another into the water, splash splash splash. I want to see them breaking their clubs on trees and or in frustration. I want to see them four and five putt those monstrous greens. I want them to feel like I do on a golf course. I never know where the balls going. I never know where it’s going to end up. I want them to finish at least 15 strokes over par every single round. Just like I do. If it was up to me the winning score at next year’s Masters would be 100 over par. Let’s see how Tiger and Phil and Ernie hold up when they have to play around like I do. That would make me very happy. Well, that’s my two cents worth, and with inflation I owe you one.