Dear Barry Bonds,
The prosecution is set to wrap today its case against you for four counts of false testimony and one count of obstructing justice on account of you gave false testimony to a grand jury in 2003 about taking performance enhancing drugs during your time with the San Francisco Giants. Well somebody is lying, and not pointing any elbows, but you're looking real Pinocchio-ish around the collar these days.
The evidence is just stacked and stacked against you. The prosecution has a 23-person witness list that includes your loose-lipped mistress of nine years who gleefully testified about the shrinkage of unmentionables you wouldn't want shrinking and roid-rage driven by the steroids you wouldn't want mentioned. Who are you fooling?
They said your cranium size increased by 1/8th during the time you were batting higher than average with the Giants. Mike Murphy, the Giants clubhouse manager, is expected to put the nail in the coffin by confirming you were indeed in need of a bigger hat size, and not because of your, ahem, ego. The Nike and FILA reps are set to say the same of your shoe size.
Your shoe size, Barry. Your shoe size. What part of the game are we still missing?
The poor gal who's known you since childhood and was tasked as your "personal shopper" gave the most riveting and emotional testimony at seeing your trainer inject you in the belly button (cringe) with a syringe that wasn't vitamin fucking C. You owed her plausible deniability at the very least! She took you to the Sadie Hawkins dance, for chrissakes.
Let's say you didn't, in fact, know you were being injected with steroids -- perhaps the drastic side effects from the injection itself would have been a fucking clue? The lady you were slapping around with your shrunken nuts for nine years testified you said you'd rip out her breast implants because you'd paid for them.
Roid rage? No? Ok.
Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. Your behavior is worthy of the side eye of the century! Dignity, thy name is not Barry Bonds. You've just been caught with your hand in the cookie jar full of performance enhancing drug-flavored cookies, and the lies just keep coming.
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Since your days as a major slugger, your weight has decreased dramatically, as has the size of your head. It's too late for the ego checking though, my friend. You are fucked. And not in a good way. What you would wanna do is find Diane Sawyer and an emotional breakdown. What would Kanye West do?
Say what you must, do what you must, but give up the act. You're the Hulk Hogan of this MLB shit, and even he made a comeback with a hit reality television show. Hell, I'd tune in. But come on Barry, you ain't gotta lie to kick it.