I'm no stranger to holistic and alternative medication. After growing up in the 60s I'm pretty sure I can still fly, but for now I'm just too busy writing.
The Barry Bonds perjury case is in its infancy and I'm currently smoking a huge bowl of flax to see if my muscles bulge and my hat size expands like Dan Aykroyd when he played a cone-head on a Saturday Night Live episode.
I was always a better hitter than him, but not nearly so full of manure that I would lie during a federal investigation. Mark my words - he'll fry in court and spend a few years signing autographs in the shower room on the bare bottoms of gigantic baby killers and serial rapists.
When you start hitting baseballs into the Atlantic from the shores of the Pacific then something is fishy. Bonds is so shameless that his Balco steroid supplier rots in jail refusing to turn in his hero and will no doubt spend a few more years in the same shower room facilities where steroids won't stave off man-love or bed bugs.
Bonds had an agenda like so many others of his era. When Hank Aaron's home run record became a possibility, everyone from A-Rod to Sammy Sosa and dozens of others began to double their backsides as pincushions and eventually things started to come apart at the seams. Palmeiro and McGwire wept in public and admitted their pile of lies and though their chances at eternal notoriety in Cooperstown are as remote as me getting re-married they at least came clean.
Bonds would have made the Hall of Fame anyway but he got greedy. His unique combination of power and speed emulates my ability to write insightful sports columns and still churn out jockey-dropping letters to Penthouse.
At some point we have to simply allow all drugs into every sport and watch seven foot, 300-pound gang members skate down left wing and shoot pucks like tank piercing mortar shells through the boards to kill dozens of fans and then eat Zdeno Chara like a clubhouse sandwich.
Let's give up. Lance Armstrong was as guilty as Scooter Libby, but has yet to receive his Presidential pardon, and the days of East German female Olympic athletes shaving before their races are long gone.
I take what I call "journalistic steroids," having just discovered a huge can of what is called Chelada a shortcut for you drunken sports hounds lacking the will or the dexterity to build a glassful of beer with Clamato juice and lime. Just crack the can and get funny.
Bond's issue is like Lenny Bruce comedy. You smile despite the bitter truth.
I long for Bonds to land in a prison cell where he can't demand a lazy boy recliner and Bose headphones. I tell lies for fun. To make you giggle. Bonds's trapped in a world where Charlie Sheen is still funny. He is more full of crap than a pregnant heifer that has munched on too much alfalfa.
Baseball Gods shine down your Holy Light, we can't resurrect the use of the guillotine but we can set the record straight. Hammerin' Hank Aaron hit his home runs eating cold baloney sandwiches in the back of the bus while his white teammates chowed down T-bones in fancy restaurants.
Babe Ruth hit his 714 dingers on hot dogs and beer. Therein lies the difference. If Bonds had simply been a fat drunk, I'd have lobbied for his immortality.
That "diet" seems to be working for me.
OJ Simpson got off for murder. As a Bonds' hater, I pray the slime ball lawyers coupled with the twisted legal system does not fail again and he is put in the soup line in a federal prison.
Let's visit him often - in our number 44 Atlanta Braves jerseys.
