Hello, Nero. Pull up a chair.
Welcome to Washington, D.C.
By all means, fiddle away. You are who you are, after all.
You'll have to pardon all of us here in Congress and Capitol Hill if it appears we're unable to kick back and listen to your fine musical selections, because we are addressing one very important wordly crisis at the moment.
Yes, we know we are still in the midst of the War in Iraq; the War in Afghanistan; the very costly, unsuccessful hunt for Osama bin Laden; Hurricane Katrina; Hurricane Rita; a Gulf Coast whose hurricane devastation runs for thousands of miles chock full of thousands of people left homeless and penniless; the catastrophic remnants of billions of dollars worth of property left useless by the hurricanes; the undeniable reverberations of the thousands more who lost lives, loved ones and all possessions in the Great Tsunami that devastated many parts of Asia; the still unchecked AIDS epidemic; meth labs dotting the rural landscapes; gambling casinos aglow in their neon utopias; astronomical gasoline and natural fuel prices that threaten the economic well-being of the middle class and all classes below; an oblivious president and administration either totally ignorant of the painful grief out there, or incapable or uninterested to cope with it all; and an apathetic population, too many simply willing to sit back in numbness and watch it all play out because it all has yet to critically impact them.
But forget all that stuff, Nero. We have to get those steroids out of Major League Baseball, or die trying. It's the National Pastime, after all. We have a duty and obligation to clean the game up, all else be damned.
We have questions and we need answers. Barry Bonds is as dirty as dirt, just like Mark McGwire, Jason Giambi, Rafael Palmeiro, Jose Canseco and all the rest. And, where the hell is Brett Boone, that light-hitting mighty mite who came out of no where to hit all those home runs? And what ever happened to Sammy Sosa?
Steroids, I tell you. Steroids. The Babe and Roger fueled their bodies on beef steak, beer and cigarettes. Today, there are steroids.
And Baseball won't do anything about it but pay it lip service, so we must act and we must act now.
Forget all the world's other problems. We have steroids in baseball! Our focus and our resources must be there to clean up the game! But we just can't figure out how to go about it, who to investigate, who to trust, who to believe, who to turn to. So, we'll keep having meaningless hearings like we do on all the other crap going on.
Uh, why did you quit playing, Nero? Fiddle away.
Better yet, here, give me that fiddle and I'll do it.
And the Congresssmen fiddle merrily away, dancing and playing and passing the instrument from one to the other, while the world turns, burns and yearns.
A broken world. A sad world. A tragic world rapidly losing its spirit. A world in chaos and turmoil with no end in sight.
And Nero's fiddles sell like hot cakes on e-bay, with anybody who is anybody owning one, playing one.
And, one by one, the millions of stricken victims, facing full counts and down to their last strike, drown in their own tears.