Steroid to Heaven

As many of you no doubt remember, and as I am trying with all my might to forget, a couple of months ago I suffered through a three-week period of temperance, in order to eradicate any and all stomach troubles that have cropped up due to my indiscriminate consumption of meat and mead.

I am happy to report that such troubles were nothing serious and that whatever disease assailed my stomach is on the verge of being vanquished.

And in order to rid the earth of this scourge once and for all, my doctor has prescribed something that will undoubtedly be of great value in this war.

My new medication?

Steroids!

That's right! Friends and enemies, I have been prescribed 'roids. I recommend you go into hiding.

My doctor has ordered me to take some kind of steroid for six weeks. The goal? I imagine that he wants my white blood cells to be at their maximum muscularity so that they may beat the living crap out of any invading pathogens, viruses, and other illegal aliens that choose to invade my stomach.

I don't anticipate many side effects, but I'm sure there will be a few. For starters, I feel compelled to break some sort of hallowed record -- perhaps I can set a world record for tacos eaten in one sitting. If it comes with some sort of asterisk, so be it. I might throw a broken bat at someone from Harvard. Hell, I might even commission someone to paint portraits of me as a centaur.

Even as I become a ripped bulk of three hundred pounds of twisted steel, I promise will try to keep my roid rage in check. I promise to start at least one, but no more than three, fights a night. I promise to lift for periods of no more than four hours a day. I promise to wear sleeveless t-shirts every day, especially in the dead of winter. In the summer, of course, I will wear no shirt. You're welcome, in advance.

Most importantly, I promise this: Taking steroids probably means that the Yankees will fall all over themselves to sign me for trillions of dollars. It will be hard to say no, but if I do take the money, I hereby swear to tank in the postseason, if only to return the world to normalcy and regain the balance between good and evil.

So farewell, my former incarnation as a two-hundred pound weakling. I will remember you fondly.

To the gym!

....

Oh God, what's happening to my balls?