Monday, April 19, 2010

Juice Boxing

Kids today are starting to realize that simply eating their vegetables won’t suffice. Parents are all too aware of the consequences if their child goes out on the athletic field with nothing but spinach and a bit of protein powder to carry them through their Little League final. The only way to survive in today’s sports world is by juicing. Years ago, beginning to juice at age 6 would get you a leg up on the competition; today, juicing has become a necessity to simply stay in the game at all.

Says a local father: “I told Johnny carrots wouldn’t do shit for his three-point average. If he wanted to win, he needed an edge. Now look at him. He’s washed up and jaded at only 9 years old. He’s past his prime, and when I go to cook outs, the other dads won’t let me drink Budweiser and grill steaks with them. No, I have to eat tofu and sip Michelob Ultra with the wives now. All because Johnny was too much of a wimp to stick a needle in his side and beef up like everybody else.”

Don’t feel bad for Johnny’s father though. He couldn’t take matters into his own hands. Like Johnny, most children have a natural aversion to needles and giant pills; it’s a true sports parent who realizes the future of their child cannot be left to their child’s discretion.

A pioneer of the juicing movement, Ginger McGwire knew her son’s career couldn’t be left to chance. “Little Mark didn’t understand why I wanted him to take those pills when he started T-ball after kindergarten. I caught him spitting them out pretty early on, so I took to grinding them up and mixing them in his Gatorade until he was old enough to fully understand his true potential.”

Pam, a local soccer mom, is speaking out against the movement. Her 7 year old son was recently asked to retire from the team because, without the help of juice, he just wasn’t able to kick that ball the required 1,000 yards.

A fellow teammate’s mother had this to say: “The moral structure Pam’s trying to lay on the sporting world is just disgusting. That she would risk the team’s winning record so her son could maintain his health into his ‘golden years’ is despicable. These are their golden years. In twenty years they’ll be able to look at their wall full of trophies and say, ‘Yeah. Winning is everything. Thanks, mom.’”

After taking a quick break to stop her 8 year old’s nosebleed and fix him another HGH shake, the mother continued. “I mean, sports are raw. They’re meant to be played with brute force. No one wants to see Dustin Diamond get his ass handed to him on the field. They want Barry Bonds out there, jacked up in all his glory. Then they want to laugh at his voice when he gives a post-game interview. What kind of parents would we be if we didn’t tell our kids how they're going to wish they’d lived their lives when they get to be our age? And Pam calls herself a soccer mom.”

As much as the parents are doing for their kids today, the local drug dealers are really the unsung heroes behind this movement, and they want some credit.

“I’m personally responsible for numerous sports records, and what thanks do I get?” asks a steroid dealer who goes by Uncle Sam. “None! They’ll thank God, but they won’t thank me. As if God could actually increase the size of their biceps by twenty-two inches and shave three seconds off their 40’s.”

What are the dealers saying about an asterisk beside future sports records? “You bet your ass we want that asterisk there. With a footnote that has the name of that person’s dealer below. Come on people, give credit where credit is due.”

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