Let me write your book, Jose Canseco

"If I really wanted to, I could be the mommy of a little pot-bellied pig baby within the next 24 hours, but I don't want to. I want to make baseball great again. I'm a great man, but now I'm a monster in your eyes, nothing but a beast of burden sent before you to pay for the sins of the elite." The all-too-ripped man began to break down. His subtle sobbing devolved into an open weep in front of the joint session of Congress. Most of the older Congressmen were weeping too, because they remembered the real baseball. "You could definitely take on any of the steroid kids playing today, even though you're over 40, because you work out naturally and have great genetics and train all the time," one Senator said brokenly through his tears and occasional cries, "You're so naturally buff and cool."

Laying on a burgundy carpet in front of a fire, Jose's naturally muscular arms soared as if in slow motion over his girlfriend's sweet body, reaching for a special present he had brought for her. It was a bottle, which he instinctively grasped tightly like a baseball bat, bringing some small part of his mind back to the days where he was a cool superstar to everybody. His bodacious bulging arm brushed her toned thigh on accident during this, but she was fine with it because he's a beast in bed and not in bed, and a baseball legend.

"This is an '89 vintage. I bought it after we won the Series that year. I don't usually poison my body with substances of any kind, but for you, my love, I will make an exception." Their eyes locked and certain parts of both bodies began to bulge and change in erotic ways. This was probably the most intense eye contact of either of their lives, and especially the girlfriend was getting all hot and bothered, most likely because she was about to do it with none other than Jose Canseco, the steroid non-doer. "I'm about set to bang this one out of the park, sweetheart. We can bone whenever you're ready." She lifted his shirt, which had "Kiss My ABS" written on it, a relic from a different life.

"Now look here, Egghead, I'm only going to ask you one more time before I get angry: What year is it?" Jose's arms were getting pumped, bigtime. They were starting to burst through the seams of his prototype time travel jumpsuit. "I told you, Mr. Jose, you've come a long way, but learning what the current year is so quickly after your trip might send your genetically perfect and cool body into shock!"

"I've heard about enough out of you, Poindexter!" The former great produced a small spring-action baseball bat and began swatting at computer terminals and medical equipment. Sparks showered across the lab, and the comparatively puny scientist cowered under a desk. "Fine, stop, I'll tell you! You're in the year... 2-4-9-... Steroids." "You don't mean?" "Yes, Jose, your former number 'One' is now pronounced 'Steroids'. We all do it now. In fact, I am amazed that I even knew that bit of trivia, since I grew up saying it the new way, which is my old way, this being the future." Jose fell to his knees to scream, "NO! The world I chose to leave is still here in this new disasterscape... this futuristic cyberworld hell! NO!"