AuntShecky
05-15-2009, 04:06 PM
{Sorry about the typo in the thread title--
the "ic" is missing from "Toxicologist." I "c" it
now.}
Chance O’Poyson: Toxicologist to the Stars
Business, as they say, was “off.” Except for the occasional farmer worried about something putrid in the water well, the opportunities were few and far between. I thought I'd have a shot with one of those forensic TV shows – - CSI:Sheboygan and the like. I actually sent a CV sheet to CBS, only to be told that they hired their tox-men “in-house.” The balance of my checking account at the Chemical Bank approached a Mormon’s blood alcohol level – - Oh point oh oh oh. It was enough to make me swallow the kool-ade, or what we professionals call, “bug juice.”
I walked into Bloody Mary’s with the goal of drowning my sorrows, or -- as we say in the trade – - flooding the dopamine. I'd just ordered the “stasis” (eight standard ounces of distilled water and a tuna on rye, hold the mercury) when she slinked in. One sight of her and I could feel my serotonin level spike. She was the kind of female specimen whom you wouldn't hesitate to inject- - with a shot of B12. She had a pair of vertical appendages that went all the way up. Her horizontal appendages seemed free of needle marks; then again, modern cosmetics can cover a multitude of tattoos.
Her hair, sparkling with a recent application of H2O2, was topped with a black chapeau. Right away my intestines signaled a red flag – - I don't know much about high fashion, but I do know that women don't wear hats anymore, and even if they did, no one has worn a veil since 1953. She sashayed to the bar and slid on the stool next to yours truly. Batting her nictitating cilia, she asked, “Hi there, Average height, Average Weight and Ostensibly Normal. Could I trouble you for a pair of Latex gloves?”
I fumbled through my pockets until I found the plastic prophylactics. She unrolled the gloves and put them on her supple ends of her forelimbs with a defiant snap. “Damn!” she cried, “That’s the fourth pair of gloves I've gone through today! It’s these nails!” She was right– the hemoglobin-colored horny tissue between her cuticles was sharp enough to cut through the alibi from a cranium crammed with a cocaine compound. “One thing I know, “ she said. “I won't be able to make my audition this afternoon.”
“Oh, are you in show business? I asked.
“Well, I hope to be some day. Right now I'm in professional sports. I'm a toxicologist working for the Baseball Commissioner’s office.”
“No! I'm a toxicologist, too! “ Immediately I felt the urge to administer some self-flagellation to my posterior section for prematurely revealing too much personal data. “We're colleagues! It’s odd that we haven't run into each other before – - at professional conference? A MENSA meeting, perhaps?”
“Yeah well, I spend most of my time following the NASCAR circuit. “ She scrutinized her watch. “Look at the time! I'm supposed to be at the clubhouse of the Manhattan Mud Puppies right now. But obviously, there’s no way I can do the steroid testing today. I'm SO not touching those urine samples without Latex gloves!”
I nearly choked on my distilled H2O but the tiny fissure in my language processing system kicked into auto-healing. “Why, I could cover the testing for you. . .”
“You could? Oh, you're a doll! All you have do is dip-stick the pee cups for traces of anabolic steroid compounds. I can't tell you what an enormous favor this is to me.”
“ I fully understand, my dear. Your sensibilities are far too inhibited for a locker room.”
“ Me? Shy?” She titled her head back in laughter, revealing two perfect rows of cuspids, both “bi” and straight. “Besides,” she said, “if you see one naked pro athlete, you've seen them all. No, I had a scheduling conflict, and your kind offer will free me up to make the other gig.”
“ Splendid! Mind if I ask what it is?”
“Not at all. I'm going to a try-out over at CBS. I'm up for the part of the forensic toxicologist on CSI: Upper Sandusky. There’s also an opening on that show for a phlebotomist, but it turned out to be a case of ‘type-casting.’ Well, tox screening waits for no woman. Gotta go. Thanks, again!”
Then as slinkily as she had entered my 100% drug-free life, she went away to self-administer a dose of immortality in the world of episodic television, while your humble poison prober, yours truly, would soon effect a forced entry into the realm of professional sports. . . .
It only took two subways rides (transfer to an Express), one bus ride, and a .56 km hike to Monistat Stadium, home of the Manhattan Mud Puppies. I knew I had reached the ballpark – the atmosphere was redolent of tubular mixtures of meat and meat byproducts and Rogaine. Just as I tried to enter the main gate, someone pulled on my sleeve. I perceived the stranger to be what is known in popular parlance, a “scalper.”
“Psst – - hey Buddy, I can get you two tickets here--“
”Oh, I'm here on Official Business, not to watch the game.”
“What game?” the entrepreneur said. “I got two on the aisle for the revival of Phantom of the Opera.”
“Thanks, I'm not interested.”
The scalper sneered. “Nobody is!”
On my way to the clubhouse, I saw some men batting and others catching baseballs. “I don't know much about baseball,” I remarked to a passing groundskeeper, “but it doesn't seem like there’s much of a crowd here today.”
“At these prices, who’s surprised?” he said.
Once I found myself inside the locker room, I introduced myself to a man who, although dressed in a baseball uniform, didn't look like an athlete. He introduced himself as informed me that the equipment manager for the Mud Puppies , Lefty Allone (accent on the final "e.")
“Where’s the skirt?” said a wizened man dressed like a Little Leaguer. “Where’s Dixie?”
“Dixie,” I deduced, was the femme fatale who from whom I had inherited this situation by default. “Uh, she had a previous engagement.” Hey, wait a minute, I thought. How did this Lefty know about Dixie? In order for random substance samples to yield valid results, there has to be a certain element of surprise. Some person associated with this team evidently had prior knowledge of the testing. Aw, dash it all, I'm just a research technician. What do I know about professional sports?
In any event, the samples were already – ready. On a bench in the middle of the locker room was a neat row of little beakers filled with various amounts of yellow fluid. The “line-up” –to use the baseball parlance -- reminded me of one of those novelty acts in which a pseudo-musician would tap out a tune on a row of water glasses. I almost wished I had a spoon (of stainless steel, if not Ag) so I could play “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” on the octave of vessels.
“Excuse me, I'll be the first to admit my ignorance of the game, but aren't there supposed to be nine players? I count only eight.”
“That’s ‘cause we're waiting on Cheeky. Cheeky Stubblechin, our first baseman. He’s been striking out a lot lately – - in more ways than one.”
“Maybe he should consider increasing his liquid intake,” I suggested.
Lefty sauntered over to the lavatory and knocked on the door of the stall. “How’s it going in there, Cheeks?”
“Just a second, Left. I'll let you know when she’s– ow!-- I'm done.”
It seemed as if we had gone through what the baseball world calls “extra innings” before Stubblechin finally indicated that his sample was ready. When the stall door opened, the arm that emerged was not muscular and hairy, as I expected. Instead, it was long and oddly feminine, and if I didn't know better, it seemed as if the fingernails were long, pointed, and painted blood-red. Yet those hands looked vaguely familiar. Strange, very strange, I thought, but then who I was to judge? I'm a scientist, not a behavioral psychologist.
“Hope this is enough,” Lefty remarked, and as he
brought the sample over to the bench, added, “That’s the farthest that any part of Cheeky has walked all season.”
I thought I heard someone say, “Ow, you're stepping on my foot! Jeez, Dixie! What do you want me to do, end up on the DL?” Apparently, Lefty had heard it too.
“Don't pay no attention to them noisy fans outside,” he said. “That’s Security for ya– never around when you need ‘em.”
After the initial “stall,” the rest of the testing process went relatively smoothly. I didn't find any questionable substances in any of the samples. The players were all “clean”-- with the possible exception of the shortstop who seems to have an inordinate partiality for asparagus.
I had just finished packing up to leave when I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Psst–hey buddy–“
”I TOLD you I'm not interested in buying any tickets, and I'd rather analyze water samples from a Jersey sewer than sit through Titus Andronicus (The Musical) so–“
”No, I'm not a scalper.” I turned around and saw an anorexic weasel in a cheap sport coat whom I recognized as the notorious alleged extortionist from Page Sick. “Tell me, Buddy, did you ‘find anything’?”
“No, but even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. My report is strictly classified for the Commissioner’s Eyes Only.”
“Perhaps a little persuasion will help you change your mind.” The weasel waved a wad of currency in my face. “Come on, deal or no deal?”
“What are you trying to bribe me? No dice.” (I was picking up the lingo pronto.)
“Come on, can't you give me something? No clear? No cream?” He followed me out the clubhouse door and ever beyond the parking lot. “What about chewin’ tobacca? Altoids? . . .”
Next day the media reported that all the members of the Manhattan Mud Puppies organization had tested negative for banned substances, and even though I'm just one of the little people behind the scenes, I'm proud to say that I played a small part in the drama of baseball history. Perhaps someday I will once again have an opportunity to examine more of the secrets (and secretions) of star ballplayers, but for now, my work is done here.
the "ic" is missing from "Toxicologist." I "c" it
now.}
Chance O’Poyson: Toxicologist to the Stars
Business, as they say, was “off.” Except for the occasional farmer worried about something putrid in the water well, the opportunities were few and far between. I thought I'd have a shot with one of those forensic TV shows – - CSI:Sheboygan and the like. I actually sent a CV sheet to CBS, only to be told that they hired their tox-men “in-house.” The balance of my checking account at the Chemical Bank approached a Mormon’s blood alcohol level – - Oh point oh oh oh. It was enough to make me swallow the kool-ade, or what we professionals call, “bug juice.”
I walked into Bloody Mary’s with the goal of drowning my sorrows, or -- as we say in the trade – - flooding the dopamine. I'd just ordered the “stasis” (eight standard ounces of distilled water and a tuna on rye, hold the mercury) when she slinked in. One sight of her and I could feel my serotonin level spike. She was the kind of female specimen whom you wouldn't hesitate to inject- - with a shot of B12. She had a pair of vertical appendages that went all the way up. Her horizontal appendages seemed free of needle marks; then again, modern cosmetics can cover a multitude of tattoos.
Her hair, sparkling with a recent application of H2O2, was topped with a black chapeau. Right away my intestines signaled a red flag – - I don't know much about high fashion, but I do know that women don't wear hats anymore, and even if they did, no one has worn a veil since 1953. She sashayed to the bar and slid on the stool next to yours truly. Batting her nictitating cilia, she asked, “Hi there, Average height, Average Weight and Ostensibly Normal. Could I trouble you for a pair of Latex gloves?”
I fumbled through my pockets until I found the plastic prophylactics. She unrolled the gloves and put them on her supple ends of her forelimbs with a defiant snap. “Damn!” she cried, “That’s the fourth pair of gloves I've gone through today! It’s these nails!” She was right– the hemoglobin-colored horny tissue between her cuticles was sharp enough to cut through the alibi from a cranium crammed with a cocaine compound. “One thing I know, “ she said. “I won't be able to make my audition this afternoon.”
“Oh, are you in show business? I asked.
“Well, I hope to be some day. Right now I'm in professional sports. I'm a toxicologist working for the Baseball Commissioner’s office.”
“No! I'm a toxicologist, too! “ Immediately I felt the urge to administer some self-flagellation to my posterior section for prematurely revealing too much personal data. “We're colleagues! It’s odd that we haven't run into each other before – - at professional conference? A MENSA meeting, perhaps?”
“Yeah well, I spend most of my time following the NASCAR circuit. “ She scrutinized her watch. “Look at the time! I'm supposed to be at the clubhouse of the Manhattan Mud Puppies right now. But obviously, there’s no way I can do the steroid testing today. I'm SO not touching those urine samples without Latex gloves!”
I nearly choked on my distilled H2O but the tiny fissure in my language processing system kicked into auto-healing. “Why, I could cover the testing for you. . .”
“You could? Oh, you're a doll! All you have do is dip-stick the pee cups for traces of anabolic steroid compounds. I can't tell you what an enormous favor this is to me.”
“ I fully understand, my dear. Your sensibilities are far too inhibited for a locker room.”
“ Me? Shy?” She titled her head back in laughter, revealing two perfect rows of cuspids, both “bi” and straight. “Besides,” she said, “if you see one naked pro athlete, you've seen them all. No, I had a scheduling conflict, and your kind offer will free me up to make the other gig.”
“ Splendid! Mind if I ask what it is?”
“Not at all. I'm going to a try-out over at CBS. I'm up for the part of the forensic toxicologist on CSI: Upper Sandusky. There’s also an opening on that show for a phlebotomist, but it turned out to be a case of ‘type-casting.’ Well, tox screening waits for no woman. Gotta go. Thanks, again!”
Then as slinkily as she had entered my 100% drug-free life, she went away to self-administer a dose of immortality in the world of episodic television, while your humble poison prober, yours truly, would soon effect a forced entry into the realm of professional sports. . . .
It only took two subways rides (transfer to an Express), one bus ride, and a .56 km hike to Monistat Stadium, home of the Manhattan Mud Puppies. I knew I had reached the ballpark – the atmosphere was redolent of tubular mixtures of meat and meat byproducts and Rogaine. Just as I tried to enter the main gate, someone pulled on my sleeve. I perceived the stranger to be what is known in popular parlance, a “scalper.”
“Psst – - hey Buddy, I can get you two tickets here--“
”Oh, I'm here on Official Business, not to watch the game.”
“What game?” the entrepreneur said. “I got two on the aisle for the revival of Phantom of the Opera.”
“Thanks, I'm not interested.”
The scalper sneered. “Nobody is!”
On my way to the clubhouse, I saw some men batting and others catching baseballs. “I don't know much about baseball,” I remarked to a passing groundskeeper, “but it doesn't seem like there’s much of a crowd here today.”
“At these prices, who’s surprised?” he said.
Once I found myself inside the locker room, I introduced myself to a man who, although dressed in a baseball uniform, didn't look like an athlete. He introduced himself as informed me that the equipment manager for the Mud Puppies , Lefty Allone (accent on the final "e.")
“Where’s the skirt?” said a wizened man dressed like a Little Leaguer. “Where’s Dixie?”
“Dixie,” I deduced, was the femme fatale who from whom I had inherited this situation by default. “Uh, she had a previous engagement.” Hey, wait a minute, I thought. How did this Lefty know about Dixie? In order for random substance samples to yield valid results, there has to be a certain element of surprise. Some person associated with this team evidently had prior knowledge of the testing. Aw, dash it all, I'm just a research technician. What do I know about professional sports?
In any event, the samples were already – ready. On a bench in the middle of the locker room was a neat row of little beakers filled with various amounts of yellow fluid. The “line-up” –to use the baseball parlance -- reminded me of one of those novelty acts in which a pseudo-musician would tap out a tune on a row of water glasses. I almost wished I had a spoon (of stainless steel, if not Ag) so I could play “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” on the octave of vessels.
“Excuse me, I'll be the first to admit my ignorance of the game, but aren't there supposed to be nine players? I count only eight.”
“That’s ‘cause we're waiting on Cheeky. Cheeky Stubblechin, our first baseman. He’s been striking out a lot lately – - in more ways than one.”
“Maybe he should consider increasing his liquid intake,” I suggested.
Lefty sauntered over to the lavatory and knocked on the door of the stall. “How’s it going in there, Cheeks?”
“Just a second, Left. I'll let you know when she’s– ow!-- I'm done.”
It seemed as if we had gone through what the baseball world calls “extra innings” before Stubblechin finally indicated that his sample was ready. When the stall door opened, the arm that emerged was not muscular and hairy, as I expected. Instead, it was long and oddly feminine, and if I didn't know better, it seemed as if the fingernails were long, pointed, and painted blood-red. Yet those hands looked vaguely familiar. Strange, very strange, I thought, but then who I was to judge? I'm a scientist, not a behavioral psychologist.
“Hope this is enough,” Lefty remarked, and as he
brought the sample over to the bench, added, “That’s the farthest that any part of Cheeky has walked all season.”
I thought I heard someone say, “Ow, you're stepping on my foot! Jeez, Dixie! What do you want me to do, end up on the DL?” Apparently, Lefty had heard it too.
“Don't pay no attention to them noisy fans outside,” he said. “That’s Security for ya– never around when you need ‘em.”
After the initial “stall,” the rest of the testing process went relatively smoothly. I didn't find any questionable substances in any of the samples. The players were all “clean”-- with the possible exception of the shortstop who seems to have an inordinate partiality for asparagus.
I had just finished packing up to leave when I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Psst–hey buddy–“
”I TOLD you I'm not interested in buying any tickets, and I'd rather analyze water samples from a Jersey sewer than sit through Titus Andronicus (The Musical) so–“
”No, I'm not a scalper.” I turned around and saw an anorexic weasel in a cheap sport coat whom I recognized as the notorious alleged extortionist from Page Sick. “Tell me, Buddy, did you ‘find anything’?”
“No, but even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. My report is strictly classified for the Commissioner’s Eyes Only.”
“Perhaps a little persuasion will help you change your mind.” The weasel waved a wad of currency in my face. “Come on, deal or no deal?”
“What are you trying to bribe me? No dice.” (I was picking up the lingo pronto.)
“Come on, can't you give me something? No clear? No cream?” He followed me out the clubhouse door and ever beyond the parking lot. “What about chewin’ tobacca? Altoids? . . .”
Next day the media reported that all the members of the Manhattan Mud Puppies organization had tested negative for banned substances, and even though I'm just one of the little people behind the scenes, I'm proud to say that I played a small part in the drama of baseball history. Perhaps someday I will once again have an opportunity to examine more of the secrets (and secretions) of star ballplayers, but for now, my work is done here.