Can Congress get baseball to go cold turkey off steroids? And how many passionate pleas will it take? Our representative speaks, passionately and otherwise, rooting out those who seek enhancements of every kind.

During questioning by Rep. Dan Burton (R-Ind.), [Sen. Jim] Bunning delivered a passionate plea. “If they started in 1992 or 1993 illegally using steroids, wipe all of their records out. Take them away. They don’t deserve them. Go ask Henry Aaron. Go ask the family of Roger Maris. Go ask all of the people that played without enhanced drugs if they would like their records compared with the current records.”

[Rep. Seamon, speaking from his seat]

Before we get into the nuts-and-bolts of this steroid juice-box thing, I’d like to make a few off-the-cuff remarks. I’ll follow up with a passionate plea around 11:23, so all you guys from ESPN be sure to get the camera angles set up by then, hahaha. My aides tell me I’ll be joined by a retired big league player living in poverty who hates steroids and Sunday games, so could someone move down a seat when the old coot gets here? Thanks a lot, Jim, that’s big of you. Ladies and gentlemen, give a big hand for the senior senator from…where the heck are you from anyway, Jimbo? Ahh, no wonder you voted against farm subsidies, I kinda wondered about that…

All right, first I’d like to thank the sports media of America for showing up here today by the tens of thousands—like Congress, I am positive they have only have baseball’s best interests at heart. Those free adult beverages and club sandwiches don’t hurt either. Man, what a spread! Not since this morning—when I met for 10 minutes with the Choctaw Ridge Reservation and Casino Operator Association—have I been in a dimly lit motel room that’s felt so altruistic or had so many weird black suitcases lying around. This is really refreshing, and I’m sure my wife and daughters will appreciate those plane tickets to the Canary Islands for the first annual Choctaw Ridge Casino Convention next February. Me have much wampum and firewater then! But seriously, what happens in the Canaries stays in the Canaries. Hey, Jim, could you move back a bit? Your jealousy is blocking my light. Not my fault the gun crazies only offered a weekend in Waco. Don’t hate, Jimbo, celebrate.

[hands over mike, whispers to aide] Hey, is it time for my passionate plea yet? Could anyone tell me…I don’t where the goddamned chairman is, I pay you to tell me where the goddamned chairman is. He’s outside having his picture taken with a ballplayer’s 110-year-old widow? Are you joking me? Shit, why didn’t someone tell me there was a photo op going on, I’d have scheduled my passionate plea for 11:42. I can’t believe I’m getting horsefucked by SportsCenter while half the red states are having pics taken with a crippled widow…

OK, where was I? Oh, yeah. We were talking about juice. And not the kind of juice that tastes good or has calcium added for strong bones, either. We’re talking about the kind of juice that you inject into your ass. We’re talking about the type of juice that shrivels your nut sack and makes zits the size of Mount Saint Helens. We’re talking about the juice of all juice, the king of beers, the main motherfucker up in this piece. We’re talking about…apple juice!

[rustles papers] Sorry, I mean steroids—got a little worked up there. Same difference, Jim, and you know it. Don’t I hear some German pharmaceutical companies calling you or something?

Just like drugs, steroids kill! In fact, steroids are drugs, and they are destroying our national pastime. Retail spending is down two percent since these horrific allegations of steroid use have come to light, and I for one am determined to put a stop to it. This insidious evil is making a mockery of everything that decent Americans consider decent. I mean, who cares what indecent people believe is decent? Because, you know, like, they’re wrong cause they’re a bunch of perverts, and I for one am determined to stop perversity, no matter what the cost to Social Security. This is a war that we must win, and that we will win.

[pauses for applause, gets silence instead] All righty then. Like I was saying, these steroids are ruining the fabric of baseball, which I’m told is a kind of acrylic knitwear. I don’t know about you, but since these ugly allegations have surfaced like Chandra Levy’s cold, dead body, I feel just terrible, like a gang of legislative chippies in leather thongs tied me down and had their way after a campaign fundraiser or something. Don’t even look at me, Jim, don’t say one single goddamned word. How can any of us trust a seemingly innocent homerun when we know steroids might be involved? What happened to the American Dream, when hard work led to success, not living inside a bathroom stall with Jose Canseco? Actually, that sounds like a ton of work, but let’s pass on that for now. Is a home run a home run anymore, or is it just ground-rule double? Is a double in the gap just a single, and a single an out? My God, are the titties on those Sports Illustrated swimsuit models for real or are they tanned and plumped with yet more of that wicked, wicked apple juice? These so-called records and bra sizes need to be expunged from the record, just like the minutes from Jim’s energy committee meetings! Where does it end? Where, God, where?

I’ll tell you where: Right here, right now, there is no other place I’d rather be. Right here, right now, watching the world wake up. And when it wakes, we are going to cook the record books! Go ask the old ballplayers how they feel about their hard-earned accomplishments being obliterated by a bunch of nut-less drug addicts! Ask Shoeless Joe Jackson how he’d feel being compared to players wearing shoes! These modern records need to be wiped out! Wipe out everything before 1993! And don’t stop there! Wipe out everything before shin guards were introduced or spitballs banned! Wipe out every record before steroids, before the rabbit ball, before hinged mitts, before split-finger fastballs, before night games, before free agency, before the breaking of the color barrier! For the love of God, it’s all lies, lies, lies…

[pauses to wipe tears] That’s about all. Looks like we don’t have time for the geezer in the wheelchair. I think Jim is about to say a few words instead. Lucky you. Thanks to the chairman and SportsCenter for airing my passionate plea. There’s more beer, roast beef platters, and cameramen in the lobby, just help yourselves. Today’s lessons will not be lost, and I know none of you good and decent people would ever do anything weird in bathrooms with needles or strangers, especially if big bucks or face time on a major network was involved. Hell, just looking around this chamber, one filled with the cream of the political and journalistic worlds, I can say with absolute confidence that not one single performance has been enhanced.


Tobias Seamon recently published the novella The Fair Grounds. More can be found here. More by Tobias Seamon