Steroids = better column

My name is Rick Newkirk. I am a world-class competitive column writer.\nSo it's official. Some of our favorite athletes have been juicing up. When talk of steroid use was first injected into newspapers and water cooler conversations, I was skeptical, but during Yankee slugger Jason Giambi's grand jury testimony, he proved hitting the gym is no substitute for hitting the needle.\nI'm not suggesting widespread drug use is a positive progression in the world of sports ethics, but at least we know the jugheads care. If they didn't, they wouldn't consume enough growth hormones to turn Shetland ponies into Budweiser Clydesdales. My suggestion is not to ban athletes like Giambi from their respective sports, but rather to encourage steroid use in other, lesser-known realms ...\n*****\nMy name is Sir Inge Packer. I am a world-class competitive checker player. When my career was teetering on the brink of failure, I needed a catalyst to give me the edge against my opponents. I turned to juice. Now my opponents are confused by my unusually high voice and mammary glands, and I destroy them with king-sized king-me's. Whatever it takes to win.\n*****\nMy name is Anna Bolic. I am a world-class competitive gourmet chef. Before I found designer steroids, my couscous was so-so and my pigs-in-a-blanket were run-of-the-mill. I turned to juice. Now my body exudes a rare radioactive element that helps me slice, dice and puree. Plus, I no longer need a microwave. My doctor said I'm going to evaporate sometime in the next three years, but I've got a death-by-chocolate cake to worry about now. Whatever it takes to win.\n*****\nMy name is Needles. I am a world-class competitive rodeo clown. I used to wear makeup to frighten the bulls into submission, but I knew at some point I was going to need a boost if I wanted to make it in this league. I turned to juice. Now I have a freakishly large head and copious backne. My legs have grown to three times their natural (wimpy) size, but my testicles have skipped town. I didn't need them anyway; all I need is my needle. Now the bulls are frightened of the real me, with no makeup. Whatever it takes to win.\n*****\nMy name is Junk McTrunk. I am a world-class competitive garbage man. I used to be puny, and it was hard lifting those heavy cans into the truck. So I turned to juice. Now I don't even smell the trash. I just lift, dump, toss, lift, dump, toss. My coworkers can even tell a difference. Sure, I'm taking advantage of an actual drug that can actually help real sick people, but I've got my needs, too. Whatever it takes to win.\n*****\nMy name is Santa Claus. I am a world-class competitive postal worker. Since I take 364 vacation days a year, I've got to work hard to deliver presents to every shack and shanty in the modern world on Christmas Eve. Each year my red velvet sack grows heavier, so finally I succumbed. I turned to juice. Sure I "rage" now and then and I've lost all my friends, but I never meant to kill that elf. I don't care. I'm cut like a snow lion, and I can even pick up those Power Wheel cars. Mrs. Claus says I'm setting a bad example for the children. Whatever it takes to win.\n***\nMaybe these scenarios are unlikely. Chefs, garbage men and postal workers usually aren't subject to the same ego trips that destroy our precious athletes. They play children's games, and we love them for it. They win those games, and we love them even more. And now some of them have destroyed their bodies to hold on to that love, if only for a few more seasons. They've obliterated the legitimacy of those games, and before long, we'll love them no more. Oh well.\nWhatever it takes to win.