Thursday, July 3, 2008

Maybe It's Time for the Roidcket to Give Up the Ghost

Yeesh, what a clusterfuck this has become for Roger Clemens. He uses all his celebrity, professional respect and political connects to maintain his status as the greatest pitcher of his generation, sure fire first ballot hall of famer and a respectable family man and he ends up grasping nothing but air.
First there was the whole Grimsley debacle, then the Mitchell Report, and then his bro-mantic relationship with McNamee became forever tarnished. Then it all died down for a bit only to have the story about his prediliction for tween country singers fire it all up again. And now this.
Tests of syringes and other steroid paraphernalia that trainer Brian McNamee submitted to federal agents will test positive for Roger Clemens' DNA, according to a brief filed in court by McNamee's lawyers.
Do you think Rusty Hardin gives refunds? You have to believe that Clemens went to the old blow-hard with the utmost confidence that he could get him off the hook. However, the client calls the shots and I'm starting to wonder if Hardin hadn't tried to talk 22 off the ledge. Maybe if Clemens had listened to him or pulled a Pettitte this shit would've been glossed over real quick. I wonder if this is now the most dramatic thing Suzyn Waldman has EVAH seen?
This has gone from a "just fucking admit it and take your lickings you fucking dolt" to a hysterically absurd near farce of stupidity to watching a man's life crumble before your eyes.
If it were anyone else but Clemens, I might feel the slight twang of sympathy but, fuck him. What's really interesting is how sports stars can commit the most horrible acts and boucne back, more or less, unscathed. You think O.J. Simpsons has been sans pussy since he killed his ex-wife? Michael Vick is sure to play in the NFL again, Julio Lugo still has employment after beating his wife and odds are that Shawn Chacone will end up getting signed post All-Star break after choke-slamming his boss.
But, you let another guy stick something in your ass to save your rapidly waning career and you are instantly a pariah. It's funny how we want purity from our atheletes only on the field. Just think about how many racist motherfuckers are in the Hall of Fame to date (Jeff Kent probably won't make it, but let's not rule anything out, oh, and Bonds? That's a negatory, Ghost Writer) and ask yourself if Clemens really deserves the Pete Rose treatment.
Well, just like Rose, the Roidcket did it to himself. Tried to blame everyone else (even his fucking wife for christsakes!) but himself and figured his legendary stature in the game would carry him through the fire. Didn't work out that way, did it, sport? Maybe you should've listened to your momma and never "gotten in a pissing contest with a skunk."
Enjoy the Mark McGwire Sad Seclusion Lifestyle, dickhead.

1 comment:

Spider63 said...

great recap on the arrogant slime known as the pocket rocket.