I've been watching all of the news about steroids in baseball, and, I have to tell you, I gotta get me some of that stuff.

I mean, seriously, look at the size of those dudes. Giambi, Bonds. Jeez, those guys are almost the size of California.... uh, the governor of California, ... who, himself, is almost the size of California. Or maybe that's just his hands.

Anyway, I've been thinking about what steroids would do for me. No more scrawny one-hundred-seventy pounds. From what I read, all I have to do is go into a bathroom, have some other dude stick a needle in my butt, pump a couple of weights, then I'm the menace of the water cooler.

The big guy.

Swaggering around with my arms out wide due to my immense latissimus dorsi muscles.

Yeah, baby! I'll spread those puppies like wings! Boo Yah!

Then when I swagger down the halls of the accounting department, the other pencil pushers will scuttle out of my way. Move over, nerd boys! Don't dare take the last cup of coffee without making a new pot! And stop hogging the fax machine, or I'll squeeze you until you pop.

Of course, there's the little issue of drug testing. Unlike major league baseball, my company has a pretty good drug program. But they screen for stuff like heroin, cocaine, pot and pans. When I went to one of the informational sessions, I learned that I could actually test positive for drugs if I ingested just two tons of poppy seed muffins at a single sitting. Imagine that. I'm sure that puts cops at risk.

There are other problems with steroids, too. Like I guess steroid users have some issues with temper and rage. Well, no problem there. I can handle rage. No problem. Get this, I actually drive to work in Chicago rush hour traffic, and I haven't rear-ended anyone in irritation yet. And believe me, I've been provoked. Why there was this Grand Prix once with the license "IMBYU" and... well, that's another story.

Not only that, but I have two teenaged girls. If I haven't killed anyone yet, I'm not gonna.

But I gotta admit to something. I took steroids once.

Seriously.

Don't tell anyone.

You see, there was this little skin condition over one of my eyebrows. When I went to the dermatologist, he prescribed a topical steroid to clean it up. So I went out to a dark alley, flashed a bunch of gang signals, and a kid sauntered out with the stuff. I slipped him some green, and stashed the stuff in my pocket while looking around for cops. Fortunately, they were all at the donut shop, snarfing poppyseed muffins.

Just kidding, I went to the pharmacy.

Afterwards, I drove home and locked myself in the bathroom. I listened at the door for signs that someone knew that there was some heavy duty steroid use going on, but it was quiet.

So I slathered some of the white cream over my right eyebrow. Right away I felt a tingling sensation that I'm pretty sure had nothing to do with the double mocha espresso I picked up at Starbucks on the way home. Turned out to be my pager instead.

Anyway, after a couple minutes, I peered in the mirror, and raised my eyebrows experimentally. And, get this, my right eyebrow shot straight up, right into my hairline, where it twitched and rolled spastically, lifting little eyebrow weights in a frenzy of steroid bliss.

So I went off to work like that, and now everybody in the accounting department is avoiding me, shooting nervous glances at me. And they jump out of my way like I'm scary or something.

What's their problem?

Oh well, I gotta go put cream on my other eyebrow.