December 14th, 2007


Roger Clemens Is A Big Fat Cheaty-Cheat Cheaterson

Sean Salisbury said this morning in defense of Roger Clemens (if ever there was an opening to abhor, that'd be at the top of the list) that "Steroids don't make your cutter move."

It's the same old defense of Barry Bonds and all the rest: Steroids don't make you swing the bat better. Steroids don't make you run faster. Steroids don't make the Heart of a Champion!

No, I guess not. But they do make you stronger. And in instances of injury, they help you heal faster. And at times of lingering fatigue, steroids give you that extra August boost to help you in the stretch run of a pennant chase.

Professional sports players aren't supposed to get better with age. Yeah, in their twenties they get better because they get smarter, more in tune with their game of choice, more comfortable with the speed acceleration between the pros and college. But eventually - as Shaun Alexander can attest - the body breaks down. Injuries you once played with are now costing you reps, costing you games. Injuries that might've healed in 3 weeks eventually take 6. You just don't have that same bounce in the second game of a back-to-back; the 11th game of a 12-game road trip doesn't see you at your same elite level.

But thanks to steroids, you can feel like a kid again when you're 38, overweight, and at what would normally be your declining seasons! At any ripe old age, you can get shot in the ass with a needle full of cheater, start game four of the ALCS, and strike out 15 batters en route to a World Series appearance.

Of course, knowing NOW that Roger Clemens did steroids when they weren't illegal doesn't put an inferior starting pitcher in that critical game four. It doesn't give David Justice a sore shoulder on that home run he hit off of Arthur Rhodes in 2001. It doesn't alter the course of history in any way. The Seattle Mariners still don't have a World Series banner hanging from the Safeco rafters.

All it does is open old wounds I've since let heal. My brain is bouncing around with What Ifs concerning the two best opportunities for a baseball championship in Seattle. It's like knowing that in 1996 Michael Jordan ate a bunch of aborted fetuses before every game, with the ingested stem cells giving him Super Basketball Powers. Or, you know, like knowing Jerramy Stevens washed his hands in pure butter before every offensive huddle in Super Bowl XL.

What can you do? Nothing. You just have to hope that there isn't any further cheating going forward that will destroy the team you root for (or, if there is, that YOUR team is taking the proper precautions to take advantage of said permissive cheating).

There's no joy in saying, "Oh, we were the REAL champions of 2000 because none of OUR players were on Steroids!" Because at the end of the day, 'Seattle Mariners' are not listed in the official record books as champions of jack squat.

There is, however, much joy in the image of Roger Clemens taking it up the ass. And that he's probably got marble-sized testicles and he'll die of some degenerative disease in his 50s. Oh how I hope and I pray he dies slow and painfully.

It's The Final Countdown (ba-na-na-na, ba-na-NA-na-na)

Last day at the office. Monday and Tuesday will sure be nice.

I'm stuffed to the meshuggeneh with pizza and pasta thanks to today being - as well - the Going Away day for someone much more important to the company. I know I know, HOW could anybody be more important than the guy who does two - count 'em TWO - sudokus every day for five days a week? Look, all I can say is that some people value hard work and importance to the company, and some people value a 64% Level 5 Completion Percentage on Japanese logic games. If it were up to me, I'd never NOT be Employee of the Month. Between that and my sweet, sweet ass, I should've been named CEO long ago.

OK, now you're just being silly.

That's true. My sweet ass was already named CEO to a Fortune 500 company last year. But still.

I can't believe today is the last I'll be able to add to the rubberband ball! My replacement and hot-coworker-friend will have to carry the torch after I'm gone. I told myself I wasn't going to cry. Must be strong for both me and the rubberbands!

Well, with my pizza cravings sufficiently stashed inside my bell-lay, that's one less thing I'll need to eat this weekend. Which paves the way for more and more White Castle all the time. I still have one day that's going to be devoted to Chinese food, but I'm seriously considering whether or not I can tackle an entire Crave Case inside of one calendar day. Not as easy as it sounds unless I go into Manhattan after midnight, sleep on it, and then start eating them cold in the morning. No, gotta be honest about it. First thing when I get up, get the Crave Case. Eat 10 in the restaurant, take the rest home and somehow try to power through the last 20 before midnight. This has the feel of something I need to do on Monday, NOT the day before I'm to sit in an airplane farting freeze-dried onions for six straight hours. That probably wouldn't win me many friends in coach OR first class. White Castle Shits in an airplane bathroom where some couple just bumped uglies for the Mile High Club not ten minutes before DOESN'T sound like a good time.

I'm gonna be getting $150 back from my deposit! That's the most I've ... ever gotten from a deposit. Pretty much, every other time I was to expect money back, I just let Jake keep it because I didn't want to clean shit. Now, I don't HAVE to clean shit because it ain't my fuckin' apartment. I'm just spending time in the room and that fucker will be spot less by the time I'm gone.

What do you think, $150 on black at the first roulette table I see in Reno? This IS just like free money I'm getting here; I wasn't expecting to get anything back, what with the damage to the walls.

I revised a story I finished almost a year ago today. Slapped a brand-new ending on the sucker and I think it's better than ever. Now I just have to go through it and make sure the whole thing flows; then hopefully Jenny will want to pimp it out to various literary establishments in the near future. If not, then it'll certainly make a beautiful corpse.

As a result though, I didn't hit the gym until almost 10pm last night. Between that and the pizza today, it's gonna be interesting to see how I do tonight. I was feeling good enough to crack the 36 Minute Mile yesterday (or rather the 36-Minute 4-Mile), but if I'm weighted down with pepperoni and penne and bread bread cheese sauce bread, I may look like Will Ferrell after he's hit with the dart in 'Old School' on the treadmill.

You ... you're crazy!
Don't Hassle the Hoff

2 Analogies: Climbing Mount Everest

I'm about to blow your minds with Analogy Two, but please bear with me on this first one, I have to vent.

I believe I talked earlier about achieving the vaunted 36-Minute Mile tonight; it's the crowning glory, my coronation into perfect health. In short, it's the goal I've been striving for these last three months on the Top Ramen Diet.

Fast forward to tonight. I was stuck in my room until 9pm revising that short story I was talking about earlier. With it finished, I changed into my shorts, bundled up around them, and braved the sub-freezing temperatures to get to the gym. I did my full allotment of crunches - six pack will be here any day now - and proceeded directly to the treadmill. Notched that baby up to 6.6 miles per hour (with my sprinting the last .20 miles at an 8.4 mph clip, I'd succeed in my 36-minute, 4-mile barrier) and hit the road.

The first mile came and went without any trouble. The second mile came and went without even realizing I'd gone so far. Mile three passed in a similar fashion and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Turning the corner on minute 28, the woman from the front desk came over to the treadmill next to me - I thought to cheerlead me to the Promised Land - and said, "It's 10 o' clock, we're closing."

And just like that, I was sunk. 3.18 miles.

You know what that's like? That's like training for a solid year, making the treacherous climb up Mount Everest, getting to within 100 yards of the peak, and then running into a rabit mountain goat who says, "It's 10 o' clock, Mount Everest is closing."

Fuck! There's no solace in KNOWING you'd break the 36-Minute Mile. You have to do it. I'm crushed. I'm 99%-sure I'm going to be too busy to hit the gym tomorrow, Sunday is DEFINITELY out, which means I can't attempt to tackle the record until Monday at the earliest ... when I'll most likely be nursing a 2-day hangover AND trying to eat an entire Crave Case.

Seven more minutes. Seven more minutes and I would've been there.

Analogy Two

This other one you're going to like, I guarantee it.

I've figured out why it's IMPOSSIBLE to catch a solid buzz by just drinking shots and nothing else all night. Like, you know how surfers are always on the hunt for the perfect wave? Well, any Above-Average Alcohol-Drinker is always on the hunt for the solid buzz. Not too drunk, not sober, awake and entertaining all night, AND feeling pretty OK the next morning. That kind of balance is the hardest thing to do in life and some Premium Alcohol Drinkers don't even achieve such a miraculous feat.

Well, for all you A-A A-D's out there, you can scratch Vodka Shots off your list of things to try.

Here's the analogy: Drinking is like Climbing Mount Everest, only instead of being an experienced mountain climber, you're you. In other words, YOU are never going to climb all the way up Mount Everest, so it's like the Impossible Journey. Such is drinking. OK. So, if you drink beer, it's like you're chugging along at a steady pace. The more beer you drink, the higher you get, but ultimately you're going to black out/pass out, fall flat on your stomach, and slide back down the mountain into sobriety the following morning. Now, if you figure every hour you burn off one beer, that's akin to ... a slight stumble on your steady climb.

OK. BUT, if you're just taking shots, it's not possible to make that steady climb. Either you pound eight or nine shots in an hour, which is like you're running naked UP Mount Everest, leading to you tripping over that cocksucking redheaded female mountain goat from the gym and belly-sliding back down the mountain before 10pm rolls around.

If you try to do the 2-shots-an-hour trick like I did, then it's like you're busting your ass for 100 yards, sliding for 50, busting another 100, falling 50, and so on. It's tiring! Having to make up that 50 yards every hour is fucking daunting as all hell and the body just can't take it!

See, I didn't pass out last Saturday because I was too drunk; I passed out because I wanted to go to fucking sleep. Drinking to make yourself drowsy is NOT that perfect surfer wave. It's just not.

I have no solutions to the mystery - like finding the clitoris - but as soon as I catch that perfect buzz, I'll let you all in on the secret.

As for me, have I ever had the perfect buzz before? Yes, but it involved marijuana and 40s, which kind of disqualifies me since it's not exclusively alcohol-based.
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