Gay-Rod and the Yankee Growth Hormone

Well, it's official, Alex Rodriguez is now a Yankee and that guy chanting "Hey Gay-Rod!" from the outfield seats will have a Boston accent this year. In a move that many are comparing to the last time Yankees owner George Steinbrenner bought whoever the hell he wanted for his team, a few weeks ago, the Yanks have once again stockpiled enough expensive but boring players to ensure their annual subway stop at the playoffs, and inevitable shitty demise at the hands of some little league team from Scranton, Ohio. Teeth have been gnashed, gripes registered, and the Pittsburgh Pirates have gracefully dropped out of the race during their first spring training workout. Early word that the Brewers have surrendered to the French could not be confirmed as of press time.

Regardless, another season will begin, hopes will be dashed, and someone, somewhere, will actually root for the Yankees. This is likely to be the same guy who roots for Microsoft and the Harlem Globetrotters, but we all have our self-esteem issues to contend with.

Meanwhile, Barry Bonds continues to deny taking steroids, despite his personal trainer being caught with enough steroids to grow another Bonds from scratch. But we're all innocent until proven guilty, and Bonds' denial is entirely plausible coming from a mutant so large he could destroy you for suggesting he wasn't born with eyebrow muscles the size of a normal human's thighs. Bonds instead credits his cartoonish physique to workouts so intense they caused his skull to grow into the size and shape of a football helmet and gave him a chest that seats four. Later, the always-ebullient Bonds charmed reporters with a lighthearted display of bat breaking across his chiseled crotch.

Yankee slugger and fellow steroid defendant Jason Giambi showed up for spring training looking like Shaggy from the old Scooby Doo cartoons, claiming that an improved fast-foodless diet and a new commitment to working out over the offseason helped him shed fifty pounds of muscle and the excess Wendy's fat that was making his head look like it belonged on a He-Man doll. Giambi is looking reasonably human now, though he does occasionally answer reporters' questions out of a small mouth he's grown on his back. The news is good for Yankees fans, however. Whatever home-run power that is likely to be lost by the Bronx slugger shedding his second "overcoat" layer of Michelin Man muscles is likely to be made up for by the decreased likelihood that Giambi's knees will fall off mid-season like they did last year, unable to support the massive pile of Manwich stacked atop his puny human skeletal structure.

Another accused performance drug-abuser, the lovely Gary Sheffield of the Yankees, attempted to disprove steroid claims by huffing three ounces of cocaine and beating a reporter senseless with a toilet seat. Though all present were convinced of his claims, it remains to be seen whether Sheffield will be able to charm the sportsgoing public in the same way.

What does it all mean, if anything, in the big picture? Is there any point when fans will turn their backs, refusing to pay out their fickle dollars to watch a bunch of thick-necked science experiments freebasing human Miracle-Gro, trying to slap baseballs into the grandstands with their bare hands? Will there be anyone left in the stands to notice when the Yankees, a baseball team on steroids with a bulging neckline and $200 million payroll, finally acquire the last of the All-Stars? I can't speak for anyone else, but I'll be there, cheering as always. I want to see these guys tear each other apart and eat each other alive when the psychotic part of their drug cycles kick in. We could be talking about some serious Roman times here, plus hot dogs.

And that sure beats the snot out of network TV in my book.

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