t took congressional involvement to break the dyke, but baseball commissioner Bud “Charisma� Selig finally admitted to reporters this week that Major League Baseball has a serious problem with Gatorade. The performance-enhancing beverage, known in baseball circles as “The Juice,� has been giving modern ballplayers an unfair advantage over their historical counterparts for years, due to its advanced electrolyte-replacing technology and deliciously thirst-quenching lemon-lime flavor.

“Who knows how many home runs Babe Ruth could have hit if he wasn’t thirsty all the time?� questioned baseball historian and still living at home middle-aged guy Roger Bankercruff. “The number would have been astronomical. With all the hot dogs that guy ate, plus the fact that he never, ever drank anything but highly-dehydrating beer, even during games or when brushing his teeth, the evidence points to Ruth leaning heavily on death’s door for most of his playing career. Which makes the man’s accomplishments obviously all the more impressive. If he hadn’t been near-fatally dehydrated, not to mention completely bereft of vital electrolytes, for the whole of his adult life, we’d be talking about the one time he didn’t hit a home run, and how Barry Bonds isn’t fit to sniff the Babe’s grotesquely stained tidy whiteys.�

Pressed for an imaginary number of home runs Babe Ruth would have hit if we could go back in time with a case of Gatorade and convince the Babe that it was futuristic green beer, Bankercruff struggled with a calculator and his counting fingers for several minutes before deciding “10,000 home runs is not an unreasonable estimate,� had Ruth been hopped up on Gatorade during his playing days. Such a total would leave Bonds roughly 9,300 short in his quest to become baseball’s all-time home run leader, a number the Giants slugger may not reach without further developments in human growth hormone, Teflon knees, or Bonds’ head being re-attached to some kind of mechanical hitting machine.

Active home run leader Bonds, as well as notorious Michelin men Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa and Jason Giambi, have all come under fire in recent months for their performance and inhumanly well-hydrated appearances. A recent congressional hearing saw fan favorite McGwire dodge the issue of his Gatorade use like a ninja frog, virtually confirming fan suspicions that Big Mac had been “hydrating� for years. McGwire’s suspiciously non-parched speaking voice did nothing to dispel these concerns, in spite of the slugger’s claims that he had only used questionable but unbanned beverages such as Red Bull and Diet Rock Star. Baseball stars Rafael Palmeiro, Sammy Sosa and Curt Schilling conspicuously drank large quantities of water during the hearings, drawing attention to their obvious lack of artificial hydration.

In response, Major League Baseball has instituted a new Gatorade testing policy and tougher new rules, including a ten-minute talking-to for fifth-time offenders. Critics, however, have been calling the penalties too lenient and point to the new pink passionfruit Gatorade flavor that is rumored to be undetectable during drug screenings, and the use of other beverages such as Mountain Dew as a masking agent.

So far, the only player punished for Gatorade use has been Tampa Bay salary moocher Alex Sanchez, who was singled out after league officials noticed the green sweat on his jersey, which Sanchez blamed on his intense diet regiment of wheat grass and lime Play-Doh.

Other suspected hydrators have offered up similarly lame excuses, including Gary Sheffield of the Yankees, who admitted to performance-enhancing beverage use during an interview earlier this year. Sheffield explained that he had used Red Bull accidentally after it was given to him by Barry Bonds’ trainer, who told him it was baby aspirin.

“It didn’t help me, though,� explained Sheffield. “I mean, it made my headache go away, but I couldn’t hit a fastball any better. And I was up for two days scrubbing the grout in my bathroom. That shit was nasty dirty.�

Red Bull and Jolt Cola are both currently legal under Major League Baseball’s rules, but have been banned by the Olympics for years due to their hyperactive benefits, starting when 230-pound pipe-fitter Mark Tungley of Ohio won the Tour De France accidentally in 1998.

“Iwasjustonvacation, outforabikeridetoblowoffsomesteam,� explained Tungley, speaking at a high rate of speed and sweating like a beer glass in spite of the cool weather. “Jesus,thisRedBull stufftasteslikecandy, Ican’tdrinkenough. Yourememberthose sweettartscandies? Thisislikedrinkingsweettarts, exceptwithout allthechewing. It’sawesome.�

ast Friday was a familiar scene to many observers with a memory stretching back twelve months or more: Millions of Americans rushing to the airport to mail their tax returns before the April 15th midnight deadline, only to be redirected to the post office, the nation’s more traditional outlet for its citizens’ mailing needs.

The April 15th deadline for postmarked tax returns still catches millions of Americans off guard every year, in spite of not having changed in over 50 years. Earlier dates of March 1st and 15th, set in 1913 and 1918 respectively, caused similar problems by arriving predictably every year. Experts agree that moving the date forward even later into the year would likely only solve the problem for people who hadn’t heard about the date change. Postal Service officials confirm an annual rush of elderly taxpayers every March 1st, proving that old habits die hard, though the Postal Service official we talked to thought it was because “that’s when they got their rebate check for denture glue or baby food or some shit.�

This reporter suffered from unusual difficulty collecting quotes for this story, since every person she approached on the street to ask if they’d waited until the last minute to file their taxes invariably screamed something like “Oh holy fuck!� or a comical “Shiiiiiiiiiiiiii- iiiiiit…� before sprinting away, either to hurriedly file their taxes or avoid the awareness of such for a few more precious hours.

Further digging, however, revealed Americans from all walks of life that were routinely bushwhacked by entirely predictable yearly phenomena, even those having nothing to do with 1040 forms, exemptions, or the Sino-Russo Breast Reduction. A surprising number of Americans were even caught off guard by the arrival of spring and warmer temperatures after months of cold winter.

“Jesus, it’s getting warm,� commented a surprised Burt Filbitz of Terre Haute, Indiana. “Who knows when this will let up? It’s weird. I hope it stops at some point, before we all get burnt and melted by the sun.�

Still others were similarly distressed by the rising of the sun this morning, a daily ritual that never the less caught some unprepared night-enjoyers completely off guard.

“There it is again!� screamed Scranton, Ohio’s Meg Dadry. “There’s fire in the sky, mama! Fire!�

In order to combat the yearly crush of customers seeking to get their tax returns mailed before midnight on tax day, often causing lines at post offices across the nation that make the pope’s funeral look like the line for voluntary chemical castration, the U.S. Postal Service has been running a series of helpful reminder television commercials throughout the months of March and April to help Americans to not be so predictably dopey.

The first of the ads featured a long-awaited reunion of washed up stoner comedy legends Cheech and Chong, referencing one of their most popular routines.

“Knock Knock,� the ad begins.

“Who’s there?�

“Tax time.�

“Tax Time’s not here, man!�

The starkest of the new ads and possibly the most effective, however, featured only a black screen with actor Jeff Bridges offering the simple voice-over “Wake up, dipshit, it’s tax time.�

You may have read about my A.M. radio station and the hostile buyout Clear Channel is attempting. But of course I have other problems to worry about, so that's just the pus-filled boil on the sore foot. Which is a nasty version of the "icing on the cake" cliché. I'm getting married in just a couple of months, so you can imagine I'm pretty distracted with all those details and trying to get a divorce from my current wife. Then there's always planning the big event… Girl Elvis vs. roommate Lee in one of the biggest matches ever to be courted by the Fox network.

So it's not like I needed something else to draw on my time. But this X-M radio is a severe letdown.

I went through all this time and effort to get the thing installed, which mainly involved the Sears guy fiddling with the stereo area while I hovered over him, arms crossed, tapping my foot, and asking what the hell the hold up was for a hundred hours. Actually, that's an embellishment—at 3'9" I don't exactly hover over anybody, but I've made an art out of hovering under them.

This is neither here nor there, surprisingly off-topic for one of my columns. I take issue not with the slowness of the guy (another column, another tirade) but with the failure of X-M radio to live up to my unrealistic expectations. They promised commercial free, and technically, they give it to you, since there's no commercial support. Imagine my supreme disappointment to find out they still employ DJs!

DJs? What is this, the 1960s? Is one song fading out and another fading in such a frightful concept that we need the banter of vanity voices to break up the constant play? It's damn ridiculous, radio industry. As a nation, we've outgrown DJs. As for VJs, they were never a good idea. The writing in the corner can perfectly inform me of the name of today's one-hit wonderband. DJs we've allowed for a little longer, since the radio isn't a visual medium, and the last thing I need is another car wreck while I call the radio station to find out who performed the last song. But those days are gone.

We have all-digital equipment now, not to mention cellphones you can operate with one hand. Modern radios with scrolling text can tell us who played the previous song, and if we wanted the other accoutrements of a live DJ, I'm sure they could tell us it's warm outside and insult our musical tastes as well. I refuse to pay a monthly service fee for space-age commercial-free radio and then listen to the prattling of a DJ like I'm a goddamn caveman trying to start a fire in his rumbling beast-like horseless carriage on the way to the commune each morning. Or whenever I choose to skip work and go elsewhere, but that's my business.

So naturally I ripped the guts out of my car and sent them the whole contraption back in a box, along with some parts that I think were motor-oriented, since the car no longer runs. But I made my point, and I'll expect a full refund on the whole thing. I would try Sirius, but I doubt they'd be much of an improvement—and frankly, I soured on their venture ever since they turned down the slogan I proposed: "Radio? Get Sirius!" That's just poor foresight, my satellite friends.

So I'm back to square one, with nothing to listen to on my drive to work, should I ever get the car working again. I mean, there's always KROK, the all-Rok Finger favorites radio station that I own, but hearing all that music only I like all the time gets a little monotonous. And it would leave me with little to complain about, regarding this whole X-M radio deal.

Did I mention how slow the guy installed it? You'd think he was getting paid by the hour. Which he was.

º Last Column: Match of the Century
º more columns