he fallout from Tuesday night's corked bat incident involving Sammy Sosa has been fast and harsh. When the Cubs player was found to have taken a corked bat into the game, he was ejected from the game; Friday the Major League Baseball Commission handed down an eight-game suspension to the home-run hitter, who in 1998 was neck-in-neck with Mark McGwire to set a new home-run record. But the more unbearable fallout is continuing with no break in sight: Sports columnists and reporters and their never-ending assessment of the situation.

"What a shame," said Denver Post Sports Editor Thad Griswald. "This guy, he's a player. He's a good player, and before this there was no doubt he was a Hall of Famer. Now, even if he goes into the Hall of Fame, there's going to be an asterisk by his name. The next time he hits a homer… nobody may say anything, but everybody's going to wonder."

Statements very much to the same effect and with equally melodramatic tones have echoed throughout the week. Sosa's intention to cheat, or his innocence of the charge, have given the fading sport's many pundits an opportunity to talk with misguided passion about something other than salary caps and free agency.

ESPN 2 late-night commentator Art Biederbeck: "The sad thing is that at this point it doesn't matter if Sammy meant to cheat or not. He will always be remembered for this as much as his race with McGwire for the record—did he or didn't he? It will always accompany the name of Sammy Sosa. He may not even make the Hall of Fame now. And if he does, mark my words, folks, there will be an asterisk there."

Mortals everywhere who had been only vaguely following the sport of baseball as national interest in the sport wanes for more clock-oriented, fast-paced sports like football and basketball, now find themselves driven away from even catching box scores out of fear they'll catch another diatribe about Sosa and his mystery bat.

"It's criminal that everyone leaps to conclusions about Sammy Sosa's entire career on the basis of one bat," complained D.C.-area WRBI sportscaster Cory Alvin. "They checked 76 of his bats, all in perfect condition, but this one is going to haunt him. Out there, someone's always going to wonder if every homerun in his career was from an illegal bat. And that's the real tragedy of all this."

As the story snowballs, with Sosa planning to appeal his 8-game suspension next week, no end is in sight to the over-dramatization of the story. Sports shows on network and basic cable, as well as 24-hour sports channels, are expected to roll out sports authorities one after the other, including broadcasters, former Hall of Famers, and current players to deliver the same basic positions over and over again, rather than conclude Major League Baseball will make a decision and allow it to stand as the official position. The best hope for relief from the continual coverage of the story is the death of a Major League player, like Reggie Jackson or something, especially from a horrible disease or even murder.

"It's a real problem with sports commentators," said baseball fan and author Max J. Hartley. "Nothing new has been said about the sport in at least 20 years, maybe more, and a lot of these guys aren't well versed on other issues, so a lot of passion gets channeled into these seeming non-issues. But what they don't realize when they go on television all hangdog or write a real melancholy column with this Sosa bat story, it's going to stick in people's craw. They may make a good observation down the road, something really original about the state of baseball's popularity or the real free agency problem, but people will always think of this in the back of their minds, this pretentious posturing about an incident that was in all likelihood an accident, or at worst an attempt by a player past his prime to cheat a few runs. It will dog them for their careers. If they ever get a shot at the Sports Broadcasters Hall of Fame, even if they get in, there will be an asterisk by their names."

ush administration officials are calling the war on Iraq and "unqualified success" today after the announcement that US forces have found scores of embarrassing home videos shot by Saddam Hussein's son Uday, amidst the rubble of a once-fabulous liberated palace.

"We've said all along that the Husseins were in possession of these videotapes," stated press secretary Ari Fleischer, who's supposed to be retiring but won't go away. "There have been doubters and detractors who questioned our presence in Iraq, but on this day vindication is ours."

After a confused silence and brief mumbling from among the assembled press corps, a closeted reporter for another news organization asked the question this reporter would have asked eventually.

"So does this mean you're discontinuing the search for weapons of mass destruction?"

"Weapons of ma- Son, you've been watching too many comic book movies. We've set up a nice little playroom for liberals out there in the hall, with a ball pit and everything, so why don't you just take your little fantasies out there and let the grown-ups talk. Our actions in Iraq have always been about finding these videotapes and proving to the world that the Husseins are real class-A jerks. Now, I can understand how there might have been some confusion, as WMD is Iraqi for VCR," said Fleischer, pausing to see if anyone bought that.

The tapes in question offer a meticulously detailed look into the life of a dictator's son, documenting nearly everything Uday did between purchasing the camera and skipping town for an undisclosed location with his arms full of gold bars and porno magazines as the US forces advanced on Baghdad. While it is questionable if acquiring the tapes justified the deaths of thousands, few can argue the supremely embarrassing nature of the tapes themselves, a prime example of what happens when you give an absolute moron absolute power.

Several of the tapes cover Hussein's last few birthday parties, which were all tainted by bloodshed and Uday shooting down piñatas and piñata-hanging servants with an assault rifle. The most tender moments from these celebrations show Uday strapping his servants into giant human-hamster wheels and rolling them off a cliff, in homage to the 1982 Richard Pryor hit The Toy.

Too many tapes document Uday's triumphant recovery from one of Saddam's yearly attempts on his life, which left him paralyzed in one leg and forced to pee sitting down. And don't you know we feel that pain, sister. Most find the endless hours of physical therapy sessions backed by the Gloria Gaylor tune "I Will Survive" painful and debilitating to watch, but Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times argued that they were "inspiring and raw. One of the ten best home videos of the year." Which is more proof than we really needed that a couple years ago somebody replaced Roger Ebert with Rex Reed in a really-fat suit.

Other videotapes from the collection are not so highly-acclaimed, including the hilarious "I'm Too Sexy" tape, which has been making the rounds on the Internet this week. The infamous tape features Uday Hussein miming the 1991 Right Said Fred hit while stripping seductively in front of the camera, revealing more body hair than a water bison and what Larry King has called his "24-pack abs." Girl, you mean but you the truth!

Most of the publicity has been focused on the tapes of Uday's infamous palace sex orgies, which turned out to be more disappointing than the sequel to The Wizard of Oz. If you call Uday swapping spit with a couple of drunken and entirely homely Iraqi girls hot, let me tell you you've been watching too much CNN, sugar.

Most disturbing of all the discoveries were Uday's collection of pre-recorded videocassettes, which included a terrifying selection of really lame American films. Among the horrors revealed were Green Card, Bounce, Only the Lonely and the complete Sandra Bullock catalog. Let's just hope man-child here had access to a local Blockbuster or some kind of Iraqi Netflix or something, because damn!

Hussein had been known to torture Iraqi athletes who performed poorly in the Olympics, which is the only possible explanation for his ownership of three copies of the golden retriever sports flick Air Bud. Beyond the fact that he was working on boning up his resume of mad despot quirks, of course.

Apparently the Husseins didn't have time to pack up or destroy the incriminating tapes before fleeing the country, choosing unwisely to focus instead on plundering Iraq's gold and riches. Boys, all that loot may buy you happiness, but you can never buy back your dignity honey. Believe me I've tried.

Well, it seems as if another baseball season is well upon us, with the grotesquely overgrown boys of summer regaling us with their rawhide antics. This season has progressed like many others, with the Yankees and Braves keeping things safe for folks who only check the standings every couple of years, and the Mets playing a brand of baseball so ugly even the New Yorkers have noticed. I've been saying for years that trading for Mo Vaughn was a mistake, that team just hasn't been the same since he ate the middle infielders.

Last year the big controversy was steroids, when the apathetic public finally took notice after enough guys had their meat-laden arms rip out of the sockets mid-swing, drenching the field in a strange purplish blood that singed the grass. Ken Caminiti admitted to using steroids during his years as a player, which was just as shocking as Cheech and Chong dropping the bomb that they occasionally enjoyed a little toke of the reefer. Most steroid freaks only break a bat over their knee when they strike out, but Caminiti would break bats over his own throat when people pronounced his last name wrong. The league should have taken notice when he stopped wearing a cup and starting wearing a sports bra.

The big story this year is who in the hell did we send to play baseball in Detroit? I know the Red Wings are popular up there but I still say they have no business on the diamond. Get some real ballplayers up there, or at least some semi-coordinated beer-league softball guys you pulled out of a hat, like the Devil Rays did. There's just no way major league teams should be spotting each other runs or having their outfielders play on their knees to make things competitive. If the Tigers were a movie, they wouldn't be Major League, they'd be My Left Foot.

The feel-good story of the year so far is the Expos, who are doing well playing half of their games in a stadium in San Juan, whenever there aren't live chickens running across the field. Word is the locals have never heard of baseball, but turn out in droves to see the strange men wave sticks at each other. A concession is a concession, though, and Puerto Rican fans even got into the MLB spirit by hitting Carl Everett in the head with a radish last week. He wasn't even playing, I hear he was just in town for the world-class cockfighting. It's truly a strange world for the man who doesn't believe in dinosaurs.

People were even getting excited about the Royals this year, but that's only because everybody else in the league is on the disabled list. I don't know who let all these crybabies into the sport, but lately the MLB is like a dodgeball game at a fat camp.

Everybody's talking about Roger Clemens' 300th win, which is about as fun as watching an asshole win at cards. Not that I'm saying Clemens cheats, but if you were playing poker with some guy who suddenly hit you in the head with the five of diamonds, there'd be some eyebrows raised. I hear that as a token of gratitude the Yankees are going to trade him to Detroit for a Cadillac. Go Tigers.

I went to a Twins game last week and Torii Hunter caught a tee shirt they were trying to air-cannon into the stands, that guy's an asshole.

I'll keep you updated on my attempts to get on the Yankee payroll this season. I can still play a little left field, and it's not like they've ever heard the phrase "expense control." So wish me luck, and if you see Steinbrenner, tell him I go to bed every night at 7.

Thanks.

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