Barry Bonds is a Hero ("What If" Vol. I)

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Anyone who follows baseball at all knows that Barry Bonds holds the records for most home runs in a single season and most home runs in a career.
They probably also know him as a steroid cheat.
For the uneducated, let's start with some back story.
Barry was a good--perhaps great would be a better word--player from 1986 to 1999. Then he suddenly embiggened himself and started thumping the shit out of the ball, hitting 49 homers in 2000 and a record-setting 73 in 2001. That he did it with help from steroids is for most people an obvious conclusion, as players don't suddenly have the best years of their career after playing for 13 years. That's when decline starts, not sudden improvement.
A perplexing question for many is why Barry turned to steroids. He would have been a potential Hall of Fame candidate if he'd retired in 2000 instead of ballooning into a gigantic home run monster. Continuing his career for a few more years with his usual .300ish average, 30 home runs per season, etc. would have made it a lock. So if he's on pace for a Hall of Fame career and has already made enough money to be rich as all hell, why bother with the steroids?

I propose the following "what if" scenario:

What if Barry Bonds is actually a hero who sacrificed his own legacy to put an end to the steroid era?

It's 1999, and Barry has just seen Mark McGwire break the single season home run record. McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Brady freaking Anderson of all people, and countless others are jacking 50, 60, 65 homers per season now like it's nothing. Barry looks at his 13 years of being a consistent hitter with decent power, base-stealing skill, and respectable fielding. 
He sees that no one cares. All they care about is home runs. 
Now, Barry hits plenty of home runs. As I've mentioned, his 30 or so per year were enough to qualify him before the steroid era as a viable home run threat. But that's not enough. He's one of the best players in the game but he's being ignored in favor of one-trick ponies whose only skill is injecting themselves with Gila monster venom and smashing home runs halfway to Australia. 
He sees the way the game is going and realizes that, if unchecked, the game he loves will turn into a crapfest and stay that way forever. Something must be done.
"I'm one of the most skilled hitters there are," he thinks. "Give me some of that muscle juice and I'll not only be a better contact hitter but a better home run hitter than every single player in the game. I'm good enough already that with the proper pharmaceutical assistance, I can fuck up the record books so bad that people will have no choice but to pull the blinders from their eyes that have allowed them to pretend they don't know what's happening to baseball.
"For a while, people will love me. I'll be a hero in my hometown, I'll sign a mega-millions contract, and I'll have my name in all the record books. But it'll come with a cost. In time, I'll be vilified. I'll be hated. My already tense relationship with the press will develop into full-on hatred. Next to my name in those record books will be a big fat asterisk implying that my accomplishments were bogus. My Hall of Fame ticket will be torn up and flushed. The word 'steroids' will be synonymous with my legacy. But by God, it'll be worth it!
"Yes," says Barry. "I will free baseball from the bonds (tee hee) of steroids!"
And oh my, did he. 
Barry did just as my hypothetical scenario laid it out and fucked up the record books big time.
Everyone came to their senses, baseball (mostly) cleaned itself up, and once again a "power hitter" is someone who hits 30 homers in a season--probably not 50, not 60, and definitely not 70.
Is this really what happened? Did Barry Bonds turn himself into a cautionary tale simply to save baseball from its steroid problem?
Probably not.
But what if he did?

Comparing Soccer to Other Sports

"I am not the hero that Gotham deserves"

It appears a soccer stadium could be in our future.
This of course is perfectly fine with everyone despite the fact that talk of building a football stadium caused waves of outrage and rivers of tears that threatened to drown us all in righteous indignation, you great lot of hypocrites.
Anyway, to better educate everyone on the sport that may soon be coming to our fine city, today I'd like to talk about one of the most maligned aspects of soccer.
Call it "diving," "flopping," or "being an obnoxious little pansy," but whatever you choose to call it, players taking hyperbolic falls to try and draw fouls against the other team have given soccer a bad name. To put everything in perspective and restore a more realistic view of soccer, let's compare players' acting habits in other sports to those of soccer. 

Baseball:
A pitch whizzes by the arm of the batter. It is unclear whether or not the ball hit him.
The player clutches his elbow and exclaims "I say! I've just been struck by a baseball! I had better go to first base now, hadn't I?"
The umpire agrees that he was in fact hit and sends him off to first base.

Football:
A wide receiver is bumped slightly by the opposing cornerback while running his route. He throws his hands into the air and falls to the ground, shouting "Egad! I do believe my opponent has committed the illegal act of pass interference! Certainly the officials will assess a penalty for this infraction!"
The referee does so.

Hockey:
A player is bumped slightly by his opponent. He throws himself to the ice, perhaps bouncing his head lightly off the boards for effect and exclaims "Oh, hey! That must've been a cross-check there, eh? Aboot time you sent that hoser off to the penalty box, eh, ref?"
The referee does so.

Soccer:
A player is bumped slightly by his opponent. He flings himself to the ground, clutching his eye with one hand and his ankle with the other while conjecturing that he has likely sustained a lacerated spleen as well, not to mention he's just caught a nasty cold.
He writhes in agony on the ground while one of his teammates insists that the medical staff be summoned to examine him. The medics diligently inspect his various maladies and determine that a stretcher is needed. They gingerly place him upon it, being extra careful to immobilize his head and neck due to the potential spinal trauma he may have sustained.
The player is rushed to the hospital, the ambulance weaving in and out of rush hour traffic and causing three fender-benders along the way. The roadways are jammed for hours thereafter.
Upon arrival, the player informs the doctors that they need not bother treating him as he has in fact just died.
He is taken back to the stadium and all present are informed that it was his dying wish to be buried on the sidelines by his mates so that he may forever remain a part of the game he loved so dearly.
As the casket is being lowered, the referee delivers the eulogy, says a brief prayer, gives a final blessing, and assesses a yellow card to the opposing team's player.
Next of kin are notified, lawyers are summoned to read the player's will, and obituaries are typed up for tomorrow's papers. 
The television cameras show his widow grieving silently in the stands, consoling herself in the knowledge that at least her dear husband died doing what he enjoyed most. She gently dabs at her tears to prevent her mascara running and tries not to think of the years of loneliness and solitude that lay in front of her now that the love of her life has perished so tragically and at such a young age.
A few minutes later the player decides that he feels all right after all, digs himself up, and rejoins the game no worse for wear and having missed only three minutes of playing time.
This happens eleven more times before the half ends.

Soccer is stupid.

Images:
Diver stolen from arsenalarsenal.net, finger kid poached from knowyourmeme.com.

Things That Make Me Happy Vol I: Vince Wilfork Is Fat

Sometimes, when we're having a bad day (which is just about every day for some of us) we need to take time out to look on the lighter side of life--or in some cases, the not-so-light side of life.

Few things in this world tickle my funny bone more than how freaking fat Vince Wilfork is.

 

Look at him. Jesus Christ, what a monster.

 

 Here are some little-known facts about Vince Wilfork:

1. Many people believe the African elephant is the world's largest land animal. This is not true. Vince Wilfork is the world's largest land animal.

2. Vince Wilfork once challenged Satan and God to an eating contest. Vince ate God and Satan forfeited.

3. Saturn has 12 rings and 62 moons. Vince Wilfork has 2 Super Bowl rings and 57 moons.

4. Vince Wilfork's gravity causes the tide to come in every time he goes to the beach.
5. Vince Wilfork can order dessert in 29 different languages.
6. Vince Wilfork's mass is so enormous he performs fusion at his core.
7. Vince Wilfork once ate Turkey for dinner. The country, not the food.
8. In high school, Vince Wilfork was voted "Most likely to collapse into a neutron star."
9. February used to have 31 days until Vince Wilfork ate three of them.
10. Vince Wilfork's blood type is "chocolate."
11. Vince Wilfork has said he enjoys yoga in his spare time. "Yoga" is how he pronounces "yogurt."
12. Vince Wilfork's doctor once told him he needed to lose a few pounds. The only time Vince has lost a few pounds was at a poker game in England.
13. Vince Wilfork has never been bitten by a mosquito; any that approach burn up in his atmosphere.
14. Vince Wilfork once did a set of jumping jacks. There were no survivors.
15. Vince Wilfork has a tattoo of his home state of Florida on his back. It is actual size.
16. Vince Wilfork is the fattest thing ever.

Look upon my fat, ye mighty, and despair.