Reflections from the Caribbean: Let them eat dope

This past week I was in a state of near-total lethargy. Things like this happen when you’re on a cruise. News was the heinous representation of the real world myself and 3,000 other untanned corpulent people onboard were avoiding like norovirus. The best we could do with keeping up was the big screen on the Lido deck broadcasting CNN’s innocuous Morning Express with Robin Meade. One particular non-story that inspired both laughter and the bile to rise was one about that dithering ornament Brett Favre exchanging text messages with Brad Childress about . . . well, nothing. I’ll bet it was something along the lines of . . .

BC: u comin bk?
BF: idk lol

I swear to god, that man’s aura follows me wherever I go. He practically had a shrine built at a bar I went to in the Virgin Islands.

Part of the Green Bay shrine at an otherwise kickass bar, U.S.V.I.

It was on my final day at sea when—against my better judgement—I picked up a copy of the USA Times while waiting for my coffee to ameliorate the hangover of Cognac cigars and a liter of wine from the night previous. USA Times is euphemistically dubbed “A unique service for Carnival Cruise Lines”, but is little more than a printout of the AP wire on tabloid paper. I was greeted with tidings of a stolen Picasso in Paris, two dead cops in West Memphis, and the evil whores who run BP are still not in prison. (However, I was happy to learn that the Rays swept the Yankees. As I sailed through the Caribbean wearing a beat up Sox hat, I was met with latent hostility toward Boston. The one strange exception was a shop in St. Thomas called The Pirate’s Chest, whose owner hails from Quincy, Massachusetts. I viewed this development and the sweep as some kind of karmic revenge against those rich blue bastards.) The one item that really grabbed my attention was one regarding our country’s favorite cancer battling unitesticled cycler Lance Armstrong.

Armstrong denies new doping accusations

MIAMI – Disgraced U.S. cyclist Floyd Landis revealed new cheating allegations in a series of messages to sponsors and officials, alleging that former teammate Lance Armstrong not only joined him in doping, but taught others how to beat the system and paid an official to keep a failed test quiet . . . . Landis admitted for the first time what had long been suspected – that he was guilty of doping for several years before being stripped of his 2006 Tour de France title.

At first glance, I felt that twitch in the amygdalae sending a shock of electricity down to the hypothalamus that any sane person feels when stories of performance enhancers are encountered. It violates the whole spirit of sport, does it not? It was particularly aggravating after walking through San Juan a few days earlier, where kids come of age looking up to a deity like Roberto Clemente. Now there was a man who—without performance enhancers—earned a lifetime batting average of .300, won a Golden Glove Award and got to the All-Star game twelve years in a row, then died tragically while transporting aid to an earthquake ravaged Nicaragua. Lofty accomplishments, perhaps, but proof positive that it can be done.

That’s the gut reaction, anyway; the Lizard Brain talking. No, no. Once it’s thought out, you realize that Lance Armstrong has survived every allegation of abuse leveled against him. Whether that’s because he’s genuinely innocent or he’s the luckiest son of a bitch since Carlos Mencia, I don’t know. What I do wonder about is what kind of person Floyd Landis is and how I can’t shake how much he reminds me of that scumbag Jose Canseco. A man who’s disgraced himself, lied about his own drug abuse, and is now selling out—or possibly lying about—a colleague.

Floyd is also a cyclist and, on balance, has the deck stacked against him when it comes to not being a jackoff. It’s a known fact most cyclists don’t get hemorrhoids because they’re such perfect assholes. At least Lance has those yellow rubber wristbands that cure cancer.

Above: Jose Canseco caught between ratting out teammates and punching women in the face.

Anyway, the issue of doping in sports isn’t what I’m concerned with. It’s the only way to deal with the public’s exponentially unrealistic expectations. These swine should feel free to unionize, form their own drugged out leagues. Establish the All Drug Olympics where, to take a page from Saturday Night Live, intaking all sorts of drugs before, during, and after competition is not only legal, “in fact, it’s encouraged.” Let the fuckers inject steroids till their balls are the size of old, unrefrigerated grapes and they can bench press a Maybach 62. Rules and records are meant to be broken, as they say, and the easiest way to achieve both is to dope, and dope hard. The porn industry has fake tits and the music industry has Antares Auto-Tune; you don’t see Britney Spears fans complaining about either.

Neither should you, for that matter. Men injecting crazy junk-shrinking substances into each others’ asses is none of our business. Two things I’ve learned traveling through the tropics with a bunch of fellow pallid sloths: paying $7.00 for a can of Foster’s is the best drink deal on the ship; and most folks looking to be entertained don’t care much for substance, let alone substance abuse. Poolside viewings of Avatar and Terminator: Salvation while throwing back Australian beer that’s unpopular in Australia will teach you that.

So screw you for trying to spoil the fun, Floyd. You won’t get away with this.

“His trainer has told me that he’s taken anabolic steroids, Novocaine, NyQuil, Darvon, and some sort of fish paralyzer. Also, I believe he’s had a few cocktails within the last hour or so.”
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