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Barry Bond's Testes
"The Sack"
S.F. Giants Office
2/20/09
Dear Assistant District Attorney,
I realize that me and my nutty twin have become a "hot topic" in the on-going allegations of Papa Barry's steroid use. We completely understand that there is a side effect of steroid abuse that correlates directly with us. We still have to respectfully request that you refrain from bringing us into the proverbial "spotlight" as evidence to incriminate our once proud owner.
You see - life has sort of taken a harsh 180 for us over the past decade or so. To be honest, it was never really that great to begin with. I guess there were some good times in the early 90's. Hanging with (and from) a professional athlete definitely has had its advantages. There is nothing more thrilling for a testie than having a high-end Filipino hooker snort rails off of you for $2000 an hour. Heck, there was a time when I would have rivaled Einstein's brain for the world's most respected and envied organ. And if I'm guilty of anything - it's loving that life too much. And you can't really blame me for it. Let's face it- I'm pretty much just along for the ride here.
Now, don't get me wrong - I do accept some responsibility for Barry's actions. I admit that I played an "influential" role in his decision making abilities. But, hey... can you blame me? What else do I really have to look forward to? Had I known what the future would hold, I would have enjoyed myself a little more, laughed a little harder, forgave people that I had been denying, rode a bull and so many other things Tim McGraw made sound so good.
You see it all started to go down hill for us towards the beginning of this decade. Mrs. Bonds was starting to hit the Ben and Jerry's a little harder. Her thighs began to look like two bags of dimes. The money went to her head and she threatened us specifically on numerous occasions. It is said that women age like fine wine. In our experience, they age more like bread. And the women on the side? Well - they were fun at the time, but nothing spells regret quite like itchy rashes and painful discharges. Needless to say - life at home was volatile and life on the road was a veritable Russian roulette of break outs and suppression.
I don't want to sound like a whiner here, but have you ever been crammed in an athletic supporter for three hours a night for 130 games per season? No? I didn't think so. Imagine being blind to the outside world, stuck in a sauna - sweating your scrotum off and praying that the piece of plastic that is separating you from a 100 mph fastball or a catcher's knee is going to do the job it was hired to do. And the smell... ohhhh the smell. Listen, being a testie is overrated. There is really nothing all that great about it. Imagine for a minute if it was considered taboo to scratch your face in public. Yeah - that would suck: well welcome to my world. Or if your arm got stuck to something and you just had to leave it there. God forbid anyone see you peel your arm off of your ribs. You might be accused of fondling yourself.
And now this. Now you want to display and fondle us like two shriveled little Benjamin Buttons; looking like we belong to a 12 yr old despite the fact that we have been on the Earth for 40 years. Please - take pity on us. I get the feeling things are only going to get worse for us from here on out. Now all we have to look forward to is retirement and thanks to the HGH - we will pretty much be dead at that point anyway. It's bad enough that we compare to a hose pipe spout relative to a 3,000 sq ft house.
So we respectfully ask... nay, beg - that you leave us out of this argument. There should be plenty of other evidence here to convict. I don't think I can spend another sleepless night waiting for that knock on the door that calls us to court. I also don't want to have to buy a new suit. My old one is way too big now.
Thank you in advance,
Barry Bond's Testicles, LLC
2/20/09
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