In one of our favorite features, we take dead aim at Lizzy (of Babes Love Baseball and dancing Mitchell fame). This time, we finally drag from her the truth that America deserves.

RandBall: How convenient, isn’t it Lizzy, that you have decided to take a pre-emptive strike and request that we banter back and forth about the steroid cheaters. While we suspect that your response will no doubt vilify Roger Clemens and others of his ilk, we are wise to your game, Lizzy. We know what this is all about. Come clean, and come clear, dear Lizzy. We have long suspected you of ‘roiding. What tipped us off? Oh, well, there is the rage. That has always been plain to see. But there have also been subtler behavior differences. The way you suddenly and conveniently went from typing 50 words per minute to 70 wpm. You can claim dexterity exercises all you want, Lizzy, but we know the truth. Steroids aren’t just for home run hitters. They aren’t even just for aging pitchers looking for a faster recovery time or a few extra mph on their fastball. They are for anyone desperate enough to take any means necessary to gain an edge. And that sounds like you, Lizzy. Oh, the Mitchell Report can go ahead and live in ignorance, not pointing a finger in your direction. But we know the truth: While these players fingered in the report have tainted the game forever — and anyone who says differently or says it doesn’t bother them is a fool with no heart or soul — it is those not named that we must be even more vigilant with in the future. The Sammy Sosas of the world. We’re looking at you, Lizzy.

Lizzy: And now we get personal. It’s so on, Randball. And you got me. I admit it. I’m squished between Larry Bigbe and Brian
Roberts. My attorneys have advised me not to speak on this matter, as it is likely that Bud Selig will appear at my door any second to give me a few smacks on the knuckes with a ruler. But I’m going to use this opportunity to apologize to everyone who’s ever bothered to read anything I’ve read. I’m a phony, I’m a cheater, and my entire reputation as an Internet blogger has been a total lie. It all began in January of 2007. I was your average New Yorker — quiet, kept to myself. But nobody wanted to read happy-go-luckyness. It was frustrating and painful. I decided I needed to find some anger, because I couldn’t come up with it on my own. So I put on my tightest dress, put my hair in pigtails, and started hanging out around Shea Stadium in order to get the attention of the angriest New Yorkers I know. I learned how to be an irate individual, and eventually I learned that injecting myself with steroids would give me a competitive blogging edge. And so the Lizzy you all know and love/hate was born. The ‘roid rage got the page hits, I declared war on Roger Clemens. But it spilled into other facets of life. I punched my boyfriend in the face repeatedly. I started throwing stray cats into traffic because it made me laugh. I kick children on the subway. I cut people in line at Starbucks. It’s the rage, Rand, and I don’t know how to stop it. So in the wake of the report, I’ve decided to get help for my anger issues. The needles have left my groin fatigued. I’m headed for anger rehab, and hopefully when I return, a kinder Lizzy, one who holds doors and doesn’t randomly punch street vendors will emerge. I’m sorry, to the beautiful ladies at Babes, I’m sorry Randball, and I’m sorry America, I’m a fraud. But I’ll be back, kinder than ever.

This entry was posted on Friday, December 14th, 2007 at 2:24 pm and is filed under Main. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.