I am now Exactly Like a Professional Athlete

I have been incapacitated the last few days due an extreme case of bronchitis coupled with bronchospasm--a condition with symptoms much like asthma, but with a name that makes it sound like a rodeo event. Suffice it to say that any cowboy would be hard pressed to stay atop my bucking bronchial tubes for the full eight seconds, as the coughing would easily throw even the most seasoned of riders. (You can now take a brief break from reading this to come up with your own hilarious and highly original Brokeback Mountain jokes. Go ahead. I'll wait.)

I have been unable to speak without being reduced to a shuddering, hacking mass of alveoli. This is bad, because my job is essentially speaking, often loudly and at great length, to or at large groups of people. (I say "at" because I am not entirely convinced audiences are always listening to what I say, but rather watching the people around them for clues as to how to react.) Thus, I sought out professional, medical attention.

I have been prescribed antibiotics, narcotics and steroids--the prescription tri-fecta. I am certain all three are combining in my system to create some new form of Crystal Meth, which I will soon be arrested for possessing. In the meantime, I am living life as a professional athlete. I'm on the juice, in possession of controlled substances which I won't be prosecuted for, and presumably on antibiotics as a pro-active measure to ward off anything contracted from the odd groupie or stripper. So this is what it feels like to be in the NFL! It feels like...I have bronchitis compounded by bronchospasm. That's just how I roll.

The doctor took the time to patronize me and explain, "These aren't the type of steroids that will turn you into Barry Bonds." I didn't feel like explaining to him that I have been in the hospital for everything from deadly spider bites to open fractures to dislocations to exploding blood vessels, and that I actually have a sound, fundamental knowledge of basic pharmacology out of necessity, so I just sat and coughed indignantly as he continued treating me like an eight year-old and avoiding eye contact.

I wonder if people have actually reacted that way to him in the past. "What?! Steroids?! Why, those will transform me into an African-American, controversy-addled, baseballer! I'll have none of it! Good day!"

Imagine if there were a pill that would actually "turn you into Barry Bonds". Would you take it? There are pros and cons. Talk amongst yourself.

At any rate, the steroids have done little more than alleviate inflammation of the soft muscle linings of my air passages, although I did notice that I can now hit a baseball almost 600 feet effortlessly. Now if the damn super powers from my spider bite would just kick in, I'd be ready to accept some "great responsibility".