Where Are My Steroids? - by Philip

Here in San Francisco, one of our big front-page stories is about a former teammate of Barry Bonds testifying against him in his ongoing steroid case. Despite the splashy headlines and copious local reporting in which Bonds claimed that he was just taking "flaxseed oil," the reaction in San Francisco seems to be pretty unanimous: Duh! Of course he was taking steroids! You know, allegedly. His head is twice as big now as it was when he played for Pittsburgh, which only happens if you take steroids or stick your thumb in your mouth and blow really hard. But despite Bonds’ bulbous forehead, anger management issues, forearms that would make Olive Oyl swoon and itty bitty peanut testicles (a friend of a friend told me), we San Franciscans were only too happy to look the other way and keep shoveling money at Bonds as long as he kept hitting home runs.

After watching the incredible popularity over the years of our favorite hometown injectee, I have just one question – Where are my steroids? If steroids can help Barry Bonds hit home runs, then surely they can help a web design team hit their launch deadline. If steroids can help Marion Jones run the 100-meter dash in under 11 seconds, then they should be able to help my postal carrier get to my house by 2pm - for once! And don’t even get me started on all the ideas I have for the possible applications of human growth hormones. I could empty out my entire spam folder!

Now before you start whining about the adverse effects of steroids, I can tell you from experience that no one cares. Here in San Francisco, we gladly looked the other way when Barry threw his frequent ‘roid rage tantrums because he hit 71 home runs in a single season. We didn’t pay any attention to his receding hairline and acne because he kept on winning Golden Gloves and MVP awards. And if you look carefully at the footage of Bonds rounding the bases after he broke Hank Aaron's career record by hitting his 756th home run, there is actually a hypodermic needle sticking out of his ass labeled “not steroids.” In fact, that label is one of the centerpieces in Bonds’ defense.

So who cares if Denny in accounting hoists a copy machine over his head every time someone leaves the coffee pot empty and tosses it out of the 23rd-floor window like Chief in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest”? As long as he keeps crunching those numbers at a record pace, we can just get another copier. And also replace that guy’s slightly crushed Nissan Maxima. Likewise, I’m sure no one would mind if Kristy with a “K” in Human Resources juiced up before selecting our new health care plan. Hey, it might even get us some cool new prescription drug options. And wouldn’t you ignore Desmond’s incessant blood transfusions and that loud-ass hyperbaric chamber in his office if it meant that we could launch the online shopping cart upgrade two weeks ahead of schedule? Of course you would!

So drop that righteous indignation, America, and admit that you want some steroids too. While you’re at it, go ahead and admit that you didn’t hate Barry Bonds because he was (allegedly) doing steroids; you hated him because he wasn’t hitting home runs for your team. That’s right – I said it! Unfortunately it’s too late for you to get your own Barry Bonds now because he and A-Rod and the entire 1987 Oakland A’s starting lineup have ruined it for everyone. So if you want a little extra something to help you finish that marketing report, hurry up and get your own stash of steroids before they go off the market completely. Just be sure to ask for “flaxseed oil” and make really obvious quote marks with your fingers.