I forgot to watch the second episode of "Bonds On Bonds" last night.
Luckily, the endless and tiresome flow of commercials and mini-promos on EspyTime Theater remind me when it's on next.
Just so I can miss it again.
Bondzilla, that super-'roided freakizoid, tells me in those ads that, if I watch, he'll reveal unto me the truth.
The truth? As if it really matters to me how many CC's of HGH he may've scarfed down or how many elephant tranquilizers he wolfed down or the OtiFoam and the OtoMax (my dog's ear medicine) he'd gobble up if we put it on a Ritz cracker.
I mean, that issue is secondary, in my mind, because, well ... EVERY one of us puts several types of crazy poisons into our systems every day -- just so, one day, our colons can get good n' clogged (which, as it happens, I just stated for the record as I had a Marlboro in one hand, a Pop-Tart in the other and a Molson in another ... leaving me with only one hand to type that).
The 'roid issue didn't play as much into my self-righteous indignation and condemnation about Barry The Drama Queen (those were some reeel purrrdee waterworks he turned on during the Week 1 episode ... highlights thrusted on me by those EspyPimps at EspyTime).
What rankles me about Mister Misunderstood is the fact that most people give this dude a free pass when it comes to the fact that, unless I'm way off base with my timeline (which I'm not), he's a freakin' predicate adulterer.
Whereas the Good Book doesn't say jack about ingesting my doggie's ear medicine, but it's pretty clear about establishing guidelines about fornication with those who are not your wife.
It's a sin, jackass.
(Note: When I refer to "the Good Book," it may be Cosmopolitan or Popular Mechanics, I can't remember which ... )
So, to bottom-line it: I'd say that 68 percent of what Bonds says is the HGH talkin' -- and the other 32 percent is the flat-out lying from an adulterer who, not so long ago, had an agenda of furthering adultery.
Either way, there's ZERO credibility to basically every statement he's made because, well ... adulterers lie to (say it together) further an agenda of adultery.
"C'mon, baby, you understand how it is ..."
"Your breasts are nice. They're real?"
"I'm going to jump off the Empire State Building ..."
So, I'm supposed to care about a guy who can mash a baseball, but can't muscle up with fidelity in his personal life?
As previously stated, the issue isn't really how much dippin' of his wick was done before his nuts turned to sawdust from all the freeze-dried/reconstituted rhino semen he may've syringed into his buttocks.
However, to drop trow and take care of bidniss with those who weren't Mrs. Bee, he had to deliver the brand of contrived "tenderness" (read: unadulterated B.S.) which America saw (except me) last night.
His story kinda makes me wax nostalgic about the days when I worked for that CEO who, after dumping his mistress of 10 years, knocked up the daughter of his Hall of Fame chum.
Ah, yes ... the days of dealing with CEO malfeasance, such as standing in the kitchen and offering a quizzical look as clamato-and-vodka was guzzled pre-10 a.m. and four Marlboro Reds were power-smoked in a 14-minute span.
Good stuff when you're gettin' a taste of a word called "wedlock."
Anyway, messed-up folks who micturate on the most-important relationship in their lives (one which was sealed with an oath before God, in most cases), can't be trusted to provide a smidgen (read: one iota) of "truth."
I'm not allowed to cheat on my Mrs. because it would mean that I'd have to answer to the big, brown eyes of that SuperPup who's in the Planet Haystack starting lineup every day, rain or shine.
Usually with a fuzzy, squeaky squirrel-toy in his mouth.
The only sad part of our relationship is that when I'm applying his ear medicine, there's no disclaimer on the bottle which reads: "Barry Bonds Approved!"
It calls into question the effectiveness of the product.
Anyway, "Bonds Blowing Bonds" simply is not an adequate option on my Mackey-less Tuesday nights. I mean, Vic and the Strike Team were always there for me ... then Shane, obviously acting alone, rubbed out Lem.
Such an ending to a season finale made me uncomfortable -- but not as alienated as what I saw when the TV was on for 15 minutes on Tuesday morning.
On NBC's "Today" show, America was introduced to the Chicago-area teacher who intends to give one of her kindeys to her 10-year-old student (a kid named Brandon Shafer) so that he can remain active and play the game he loves ... basketball.
Brandon, his mom and the teacher had a sit-down with Ann Curry, the "accomplished" Today show news anchor for these past 10 years.
Yeah yeah yeah, we know she has a laundry list of news "accomplishments" a mile long, but, c'mon ... Curry for Couric?
Everybody knows that a story like this has to be handled by the warmer, friendlier Hoda Kotb.
Secondly, most of America doesn't want female teacher/boy student stories unless we can apply a LeTourneau/LaFave angle into it.
Mary Kay and Debra didn't offer one of their kidneys to a student. No, they went south of the border and volunteered some quality inner thigh.
OK ... so maybe Ann Curry knows all the right questions to ask a brigadeer general in Kuwait or the Gaza Strip, but watching her interact with a 10-year-old was downright painful.
It reminded America of when Krusty The Clown squinted to read the cue card and repeated its words: "Talk to the audience" ... before he muttered, "Ugh, this is always death ..."
The expression on Ann Curry's face was, "Junior, you know you're killing Ann Curry's career by failing to make Ann Curry look pretty and bright and sensual?"
But, Ann Curry, gamer that she is, soldiered on, as it were, and informed Little Brandon that with a new kidney, he could grow about as tall as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
Realizing quickly that Brandon was completely unfamiliar with the king of the sky-hook, Curry blurted out, "Oh, you probably don't know who he is. Well, maybe like Michael Jordan ..."
Another swing and a miss and the count is oh-and-two!
Unless Brandon remembers Jordan sinking the shot which sank the Jazz WHEN BRANDON WAS 2 YEARS OLD -- or unless Brandon watched Jordan with the Washington Wizards, ummm ... Ann, get a timeout.
A full, not a 20.
Three words which Youth Basketball America understands are "Kobe," "Shaq" and "LeBron."
End of story. So, stay clear of references to Wilt The Stilt or Pistol Pete or Dr. J.
And, whatever ya do, Ann, don't tell Brandon about Cobes at Cordillera.
Droppin' trow ...
Forgettin' a wedding vow ...
Brandon's gonna get that new kidney from his teacher -- and he's going to live long enough to one day realize that, as the TV commercial informs us, the same reasons people hate Cobes are the same reasons people love Cobes.
'Cuz he banged a chick who wasn't his wife (why we hate him) and lied to her and to America until he became lovable again (why we love him).
The name of the game is 'tang, Brandon.
Get with the program ...