I heard the news on TV tonight that Sammy Sosa did indeed take steroids. I was left in stunned, disbelief and I could feel a lump in my throat when I went outside and noticed for the first time that the moon was actually not made of cheese. Luckily, I wandered into a bar to get a drink when these women came up to me and were being really friendly, one even sat on my lap. After the dangerously titled song “Pour Some Sugar on Me” ended (I can't imagine the bee stings one would be asking for by walking through the park while covered in sugar), all three ladies were so enthralled by the details of my job as a media sales assistant that they offered to take me to a private room that they promised would provide a more intimate setting for the four of us to get to know each other better.
As I looked into my wallet, I noticed that I only had one dollar in it and before I lifted my head back up, my new friends had left my side like mice when the lights get turned on. Something seemed weird about this place and I began to think that maybe these women weren’t putting themselves through dental school by working there at night(you would think that dental students wouldn't be missing any teeth of their own). I got up and left and decided to walk back to my apartment. As I reached my street a slovenly dressed man was sitting on the pavement next to my corner grocery store. After I went to the ATM in the store, I handed the man precisely the seven dollars and eighty-one cents he had asked for. As I walked away I was comforted in knowing that he would indeed be warming his stomach with a shrimp salad sandwich at the diner down the block.
After tossing and turning in bed that night, I felt the need to put on my Sosa jersey one more time. How could a man who had hit so many home runs decide to use steroids all of sudden at the twilight of his career? It didn’t add up. I felt confused and somewhat betrayed, just like the time I had a blind date and she felt my face in the crowded restaurant before slapping it and pretending to be married(she refused to admit that she knew our mutual friend Sally). I awoke at 4 am to the sound of the buzzer going off in my apartment. I stumbled over to the intercom and pressed the button asking who it was. The man shouted “Sammy Fucking Sosa. Now, let me in, I forgot my keys.”
After buzzing in Mr. Sosa, I couldn’t believe that he had lived in my building and I had never seen him. You would think he could afford to at least live in a doorman building. The temptation was too much for me and I had to peer through the peep hole as I heard his foot steps getting closer. It kind of reminded me of waiting for Santa to arrive down my chimney, except Santa never stopped on the fourth floor of an apartment to pee out a window before yelling at his roommate to open the door. After witnessing this disgusting behavior and hearing the vulgarity that spewed out of his mouth, I felt like a fool for ever taking pride in being his fan. My only consolation was that I didn’t live next to Barry Bonds.