Baseball Town Crier Fletchinator will read from the sacred parchment of genetic misconduct: Hear ye, hear ye! Ye olde report of baseball transgressions is to be released on the morrow. Stand and hearken as the town crier will now identify those who have tarnished our fair ball and bat athletic contest. Will the named please step forth and place their heads in the stockade! (okay, enough of the ye olde crap)
Barry Bonds - The king is dead, long live the king, even if his bones are brittle, his head the size of an armadillo and his testes nothing more than two grains of iodized salt. The all-time leader in home runs and personal clubhouse La-Z-Boy recliners has had a tumultuous off-season. First, Bonds suffered through the humiliation of being banished from the Giants- a last place team- then tried his best to downplay federal perjury charges. Have fun in court, Barry. He's going down faster than the plunger on the hypodermic needle he had Greg Anderson stick into his ass. Good. I hate this guy. If anyone deserves to fry, it's this ass clown. Just look at him:
This dude's body is so unnatural he no longer discharges human waste. Seriously, someone who roots for Bonds is a retard. Sirs and madams of San Francisco, you are retarded (and gay) if you openly support Barry Bonds. Juice Latham - The godfather of the juicers. After scouring through the annals of baseball history, one thing is certain. Something fishy went down around 1877 when Juice mysteriously vanished from baseball for half a decade. Upon his arrival back into the bigs, he mustered a career high 38 RBIs (4th highest in the American Association behind Hick Carpenter, Pop Snyder and the Old Roman himself, Charlie Comiskey) for the Philadelphia Athletics. As if that wasn't proof enough, he also managed the squad to a third place finish. After being out of the game for five seasons, Latham suddenly reemerges and sets the league on fire. Hmm. Highly dubious. No wonder why the legacy of Juice will always be his name and not his artificially enhanced game.
Satchel Paige - Take a look at one of Paige's baseball cards, then a shot of the mummified remains of King Tut:
The resemblance is quite striking. How is it that a virtual clone of a two millennia old mummy can make his major league debut at the ripe old age of 41? And how can that same mummy/person pitch until the age of 58? I think it's time to put Mr. Paige under the microscope and see if he comes up clean.
Mickey Mantle - Drunk half the time and getting blown under the Yankee Stadium bleachers the other half, who knows what Mantle was capable of putting into his bloodstream. He was 90% alcohol. The man pissed booze. My grandfather used to tell me stories about how Billy Martin would drink out of the toilet after the Mick was done taking a leak. My grandfather also used to not wear pants while talking to me, but that's neither here nor there. He must have needed some uppers/downers/middlers/reversers to get him through the games. Exhume the body immediately! I demand answers.
Ken Caminiti - This jackoff thinks he can keep fooling the public with his lengthy denials and dismissal of steroid claims. Little does he know that the Mitchell Report is about to blow the lid of this story. It's going to be fucking huge. Caminiti, you can run, but you can't hide forever. The public is finally going to get some concrete answers about your 1996 NL MVP sesaon in which you batted 54 points higher than your career lifetime average, bested your previous high for RBIs by 36 and mashed 40 home runs, a staggering accomplishment after never hitting more than 29. Wait one second, I'm receiving a breaking news flash...Oh.
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