First posted at Big Dave on sports
With so much talk of steroids, dog fighting, and basketball game fixing, I took it upon myself to have first hand experience in all three activities to better explain their effects to you.
First were steroids.
I called up a pharmacist friend of mine and told him that I needed something to get me going, make me large, full of power. He gave me some pills and I scoffed them with a shot of Red Bull.
Two hours later I was large but not necessarily in the area I was hoping for, and I needed desperately to perform a certain bodily function. I called my pharmacist friend and asked him what he prescribed. “What you wanted, Viagra,” he said.
I went to my wife and told her of my predicament and she said “I am going to tell you the same thing I told the kitty when it was stuck in the tree, you got yourself up, you figure out how to get yourself down.”
I ended up going to bed and trying to sleep it off but since I sleep on my stomach I spent the night like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters sleeping six inches above the covers. (Editor’s Note: According to an e-mail I received from the writer’s wife it was only four inches.)
The next morning the drug had worn off and I began to look through the phone book for a steroids source when I saw a wrestling show was happening at the high school. One trip into the locker room and I had what I needed.
I took the drugs and hurried home, sat at the breakfast table and announced to my wife that I was on the juice. She said: “That’s nice dear, its so hard to clean you’re trousers after you’ve sat in the milk.”
I dressed for work and got in the car, started it, stepped on the gas and put my foot through the floor. I then picked up the car Flintstone style and ran to work carrying it.
First thing I did when I got to the office was change my cell phone ring to Hulk Hogan’s theme song so when I got a call I ripped off my shirt and began posing. When the copier jammed I picked it up and tossed it out the window.
A short while later my glasses frame broke because my head had swollen so much. A quick check in the bathroom mirror showed I had acne on my back and my testicles had shrunk to the size of a four year old’s who had been swimming all day.
I spent the rest of the afternoon at a construction site lifting concrete blocks usually placed by a crane. By quitting time I got a tap on the shoulder and was told to get into a black car where George Mitchell was waiting. After an hour of water boarding I told him everything I knew. By night’s end the Yankees signed me for 16 million a year.
This was more secretive than the world of steroids. I placed some carefully worded inquiries on craigslist and soon got a reply. I was to take my dog to an abandoned factory off of Route 95, park it in the back, go in a side entrance, bring the dog, and the money.
I waited until my wife was asleep and then snuck the dog out of the house. I found the warehouse, put the dog in her cage and entered the building.
It was there that I found a dozen other men like me, with similar dogs, getting ready to compete. The first fighter was in the ring and he was asked whom he’d like to take on. “Tell the new guy to bring his mutt over here,” he said.
I opened my cage. Foley, named for professional wrestler Mick Foley, and thereby a true fighter, jumped out. I picked her up.
She looked in my eyes with fierce determination and I scratched her head and placed her five-pound body in the ring. I held her. “Are you sure that’s a Yorkshire terrier?” I asked the other dog’s owner. “Looks a little heavy, might be a Silky.”
“Relax, buddy, we only fight Yorkies here,” the ring handler said.
Although nervous all I could due is trust him. Foley was giving two pounds to the other dog but she was tough. On the count of three I let her go.
Foley charged aggressively and came behind the dog and sniffed her butt. The dog stood still, but then turned, and it sniffed Foley’s ass. During the ass sniffing money quickly changed hands. Then Foley climbed up on the other dogs back and began to stimulate sex and they both began to pant. “Ride her Foley!” I yelled. “Ride that bitch for all she’s worth.”
Then Foley dismounted and peed and the other dog went to pee over it but Foley barked at her and she retreated to a corner. Then both dogs lay down and went to sleep.
“We have a tie!” the dog handler said.
“That’s the 500th tie in a row,” another man said. “Maybe we shouldn’t be fighting lap dogs.”
I agreed, and hurried Foley home, undefeated, and still the Queen of hardcore.
I drove down to the high school and found a bunch of fifth graders on the court. “What are you kids doing?” I asked.
“We’re playing basketball you hump,” one answered.
“Do you need a referee?” I asked.
The boys agreed. Before I started I went over to four boys sitting on a bench and asked them if they wanted to bet on the team wearing the shirts. They seemed interested, and I said if they could find some guys to bet on the skins team I would fix the game and we could split the money.
It took a half hour but we got our pigeons that had bet up to 75 cents on the game. Then it began and immediately I began to call fouls on the fat kid who was playing center for the skins and looked like an episode of the Girls Next Door gone wrong.
After several minutes the shirts had a healthy lead but the skins started to catch on and after a charging call one of them kicked me in the shin and I started to run after him and then the rest of his teammates jumped me and I was on the grass next to the court wrestling a group of shirtless pre-pubescent boys.
And that’s how I met Chris Hansen. And some nice police officers.
So, after my intensive investigation I can say I do not understand why any athlete or official would involve themselves in steroids, dog fighting, or fixing basketball games.
But Viagra, that I get.