Keep. It. In. Your. Pants. Please.

Question: Does anybody but Maggie care about soccer if I tell you a story about drugs and a trio of tranny prostitutes and a three-time FIFA world footballer of the year? Can I get you to care then?

So yes. Ronaldo (AC Milan, not Man U, sadly) drops his girlfriend off, goes and picks up three hookers, does some drugs, if you believe the hookers, and then flips shit when he discovered that his hookers came with a bonus feature. And I am left laughing my ass off, because...really? Three tranny hookers? I mean, one was enough for Eddie Murphy. (Note: If Cristiano Ronaldo ever gets caught with three tranny hookers, you will hear my whoops of sheer glee from space, because I hate that bastard and I hope he hurts himself in spectacular fashion in just enough time to lose Man U the championship. And I'm an Arsenal supporter, so the fact that I want Chelsea to win? Should say something.)

Look, I know it's no 'Roger Clemens took a FIFTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL to his hotel room the night he met her, but they totally waited until she was legal to have sex. No, seriously. Why are you looking at me like that?' (Which, side note: Euuurrrrrgh. Seriously. I can't even mock it any more, because I am far too fucking grossed out and depressed by the entire thing. Like, where the fuck were her parents? What the fuck was he thinking? And who picks up a fifteen year old girl and takes her to his hotel room? This ain't Thailand, Rog. We have laws against that.)

And hey, speaking of inappropriateness with the youngsters and kicking it up a notch for it being your own daughter, does someone want to explain to me why Hulk Hogan appears to be rubbing sunblock on his own daughter's ass? I just...I quit. I can't do this any more.

My point is, this week has been a bit crazy for athletes that can't keep their dick in their pants. I'd advise noted manwhore Kyle Farnsworth to maybe keep it zipped up while he serves his suspension for nearly beaning Manny Ramirez. Who knows what could happen if that crazy motherfucker got into trouble? I'm guessing it would involve several surface to air missiles, an army of midgets, at least six donkey shows and a trumpet, just for fun.

Here, have a picture of reformed manwhore Pat Burrell. (I say reformed only because he's a newlywed. I don't really believe it.) That's not sweat glinting off his shoulders. That's the funny syphilis.

I read the news today, oh boy ...

If you'd asked any baseball fan this time last year if they believed there was any chance that Roger Clemens would avoid the Hall of Fame, you probably would have gotten a does-not-compute look, even from those who hated him. "Dude," they'd say. "It's fuckin' Clemens. Seven Cy Youngs, over three hundred wins. Are you high? First ballot, no problem."

Now? Clemens is impaled on his own ego like a fish on the end of a harpoon, wriggling desperately, yelling louder and louder in hopes that he can somehow drown out the voices who call him a fraud, a cheater, the voices that hold the growing ring of truth.

Nothing has been proven. Not the steroid use, not the perjury, not the decade-long extramarital affair with a batshit crazy country singer. It's all from unnamed "sources," those who have reason to drag him down to protect themselves. But the Rocket has been red-glaring all over the place, basically screaming "I'm Roger Fucking Clemens, how DARE you say shit like this about me?!" As the cameras rolled in the Congressional hearing room he casually threw his wife, the mother of his four sons all preposterously burdened with names starting with the letter K (strikeout code) under the bus, claiming that she was the one using human growth hormone, not him. And Debbie Clemens, perfectly blonde and groomed and beautiful as only professional athletes' wives can be, smiled blandly as she listened to her husband of twenty-three years trash her, instead of freaking out and giving him a cockpunch like he deserved.

I still remember seeing Roger pitch for the first time in 1986 in Yankee Stadium, being in awe of the screaming fastball, the bad-assed attitude. My friends would tease me about being a Yankees fan but being madly in love with a member of the Boston Red Sox. One of the happiest days of my life was the day he signed with the Yankees for the first time. I didn't delude myself that he was a god who walked among the mortals; I'd heard too many stories about him being an insufferable prick, his "money uber alles" mindset. But to watch him pitch was watching history, knowing I was looking at the best of the best. To see him now, his face lined, his mouth set grimly as he walks past the media, makes me sad. If Congress' case goes through, he stands a better chance of going to prison than the oft-maligned Barry Bonds, the Pete Rose of his era.

Somehow I don't think that was the legacy he wanted to leave.