“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my coronation,” said Jose Canseco.

“I thought this was a press conference,” said a reporter.

“It is rather more than that, you insufferable simpleton.  How much do you make a year?”

“About fifty grand.”

“I made that every three days.”

“Not anymore.  That’s why you’re doing this.”

“Money will henceforth not be a consideration for today I am announcing to you, and to the cosmos, that I am revolutionizing life as we know it.  No longer will any of you slugs have to exist without vigor and beauty and mounds of muscle.   Propelled by my sublime and intricately mixed steroid cocktails, all of you shall live to be at least 130 years old, and you shall do so in far greater health than you tolerate today.  My rigorous research in chemical enhancement, during which I valiantly used myself as a superhuman guinea pig, has unlocked the most profound secrets since Einstein and relativity.  In fact, I must say that my discoveries transcend those of Einstein, and I here emphasize that Einstein needed the Canseco Cocktail far more than I need relativity.

“What do I mean, you may naively ask?  It is elementary.  Einstein, like so many physicists, peaked in his mid-twenties and thereafter lost his creative vigor and became a gray and shrunken symbol of genius that had long ago dissipated.  Furthermore, the man has been dead for fifty years.  That is tragic.  If I could have regularly administered my Canseco Cocktail to the young Einstein, I assure you he would not merely have maintained his scientific supremacy, he would’ve manifestly improved it.  And I dare say that Einstein would still be here, and on the nuclear cutting edge.”

“If your steroid cocktails are so wonderful, then why aren’t you still in the major leagues?” a reporter asked.  “You’ve obviously lost it.”

“How much do you make a year?  Never mind.  We know it’s a pittance.  Let me assure all of you that I stand erect and in every way ready to return to the major leagues and be not merely good but spectacular and legendary.  I have in recent years been denied my inalienable right to make a living.  The owners, executives, players, and umpires have conspired to end my career.  They are jealous little men.  They would of course be bigger men if they took the right things and lifted until their groins ached.  But they have not the fortitude for that.  So they have banned Jose Canseco from the game he dominated.”

“During your 2001 comeback attempt – in the minors, Jose – you were only hitting about .150,” said the most recently offended reporter.  “They didn’t ban you.  You quit.  You must’ve felt you couldn’t do it.”

“I knew I could do it.  I in fact would soon have done it but they forced me to leave before my comeback was complete.  I know they claim otherwise, but you now know the Jose truth and nothing but the truth.  The parochial game of baseball has simply never been ready for Jose Canseco.  I’m a rock star.  I’m Hollywood.  I’ve got the body.  I’ve got the charisma.  The people in baseball can’t handle that.”

“Jose,” said a female reporter, “did you hear about Babe Ruth’s recent press conference.  He said he wanted to talk to you.”

“I was watching The Babe on TV as I inserted a needle into my gluteus, and shortly thereafter received his call and request that I take over as his trainer and chemical dietician.  I have graciously done so, and in workouts The Babe is already hitting 600 foot homers and will soon be swatting them a quarter-mile.”

“How much are you charging?” she asked.

“A mere $20,000 a week.”

“That’s rather a lot, don’t you think?”

“On the contrary, sweetheart, it’s a bargain that essentially makes me a philanthropist.  By spring, propelled by the Canseco Program, The Babe will doubtless sign a contract for $50 million a year.”

“I don’t appreciate your condescension in calling me sweetheart.”

“You should be honored that Jose Canseco is alluding to his willingness to have sex with you.  As all of you know after reading my literary and scientific blockbuster – “Juiced” – I have made love to hundreds of women who were uncontrollably in love with me.”

“That’s questionable, Jose,” she said.  “I’ve many times talked to women who were quite disappointed by the amorous efforts of chemically engorged athletes.”

“Just a minute,” said a buffed woman in a body suit.  “I met Jose when I was a cocktail waitress in New York, and he took me home and thrilled me nonstop for 20 hours and wouldn’t have quit even then if my husband hadn’t interrupted.”

“What happened?” said a reporter.

“With his left hand Jose grabbed my husband by the neck and with his right three times belted him in the snout, knocking him unconscious.”

“That sounds like the assault in the bar that got you thrown into jail,” said the reporter.”

“By my standards, such behavior is not assaultive but a model of restraint.  Don’t you realize if I hadn’t held back – in the bedroom and in the bar – my left-hand squeeze would have decapitated either man, and my right would have blown holes in their skulls?  This is therefore an appropriate moment to note that if those men had been taking the Canseco Cocktail, they would have been awesome enough to hold his own, and I wouldn’t have wound up under house arrest and later in jail after being persecuted on probation for again embracing my magical elixir.”