LOS ANGELES, January 16, 2013— Dear Oprah,
Thanks to you and Lance Armstrong, it is time for me to finally come clean and face my demons.
As you know, rumors of my abuse of certain substances have been swirling around since my playing days ended. One minute I was a championship football player, and the next minute I was out of the game. Since stories of athletes behaving badly seem to be all the rage these days, please let me prostrate before you so my national redemption may begin.
For those in your audience who are not familiar with the intricacies of football, think of it like cycling, except remotely interesting. None of the games take place in France. There is no surrender in football. There is also no “I” in the word “quit.” Just go with it for now.
Anyway Oprah, the three championships I won playing coed touch football seem like a distant memory. The last one was in 2010. The secret to winning championships was easy. The team was great before my arrival and great after my departure. As a “situational role player,” I did no harm. I even scored a few touchdowns.
Yet then performance suppressors took it all away. Some people are addicted to performance enhancers, but nobody gives attention to performance suppressors. Thanks to my story, now you can help save more lives.
For years I have been using performance suppressors. I would eat a bag of Taco Doritos and wash it down with Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry Soda. Before some games an entire half a pound of ground beef would be consumed. Not only that, the waiter would give me this magic red liquid that made the burger and the fries taste fantastic. The waiter called it ketchup, but it may have been catsup.
It was all fun and games at first, but then sluggishness would set in. The other players were in their twenties, but as age forty approached, my body could not do it anymore. Retirement was the only option.
I know the stories of John Matuszak and Lyle Alzado, but performance suppressors have taken hold of me. Nowadays a big lunch is followed up by a nap since I am too tired to get on the stationary bike that I still have not purchased.
Ban me, Olympics! Take away my endorsements! I don’t care anymore! Man was not meant to live on fruits and vegetables. Real food tastes good!
In college it was “cool.” My friends and I even belonged to the “Lethargy Club.” We had an official club high-five, where the hands would miss. Our mascot was the Lethargizer Bunny. “He keeps going, and going, and wait…he’s stopped, he’s down, he’s asleep.” Other kids had the “Care Bears.” We had the “I don’t Care Bears.” There was Lethargy Bear, Apathy Bear, and Screw It Bear.
Yet the real world has proven cold. Performance suppressors are so destructive. Maybe that is why Michelle Obama is trying to ban them.
Anyway, Oprah, my coming clean now is a cry for help. Now I drink Diet Cherry 7-Up. It has anti-oxidants, so it has to be healthy. The Doritos have been replaced with Pringles, which come in a clean pop top and do much less long-term damage to fingers. Back in my Doritos days, I would have to wash my hands for over a minute just to remove the orange layer of taco flavor.
My attempt to parlay my success at the coed touch level into an NFL career is in ruins. Perhaps being 5 feet 5 and 143 pounds may have something to do with it, but without the performance suppressors my weight could drop to 128. I can bench 500, if by bench you means sitting on one while watching the game. Sportsbars really could use lounge chairs.
Thank you for reaching out to me Oprah. Don’t be too hard on Lance Armstrong. Inspired by Al Gore, America now has performance credits. They are carbon credits for athletes. My performance suppressors now cancel out his performance credits. Now both of us are redeemed.
The next time anyone criticizes my weight or yours Oprah, just remember that every person consuming chips and soda and red meat is a counter-balance to athletes getting juiced up on something more potent than Juicy-Juice.
I came clean for the children, Oprah. You’re welcome.
Eric aka the Tygrrrr Express
Brooklyn born, Long Island raised, and now living in Los Angeles, Eric Golub is a columnist, blogger, author, public speaker, satirist and comedian who is obsessed with the National Football League. There is no offseason. Every February he pretends to care about other sports while sobbing uncontrollably each Sunday until September. Eric is the author of the book trilogy “Ideological Bigotry, “Ideological Violence,” and “Ideological Idiocy.”
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