Professional sports legal inquires fill up one bathtub at a time
With the World Series pennant race in full swing, lately I’ve been attempting to subdue the two burning questions
on my mind:
-Why do I dislike baseball?
-Where do those medical personnel save all that pee used for drug testing?
Let’s begin with the second question. I like math, so try this problem:
Suppose all 11,099 athletes competing in the 2004 Summer Olympics had an initial test done to prove they weren’t juiced. Each test requires roughly 50 milliliters, or a fifth of a cup, of urine. If none of the athletes spill, then how many janitors get a night off?
More importantly, by simple arithmetic we can determine that initial testing would yield more than 550 liters of urine. For the metrically uninclined, it’s enough to overflow two normal bathtubs full of the liquid. Please do not try this at home.
Lance Armstrong, professional cyclist and self-proclaimed “athletic drug testing’s most prolific urinater,” has to pee a lot. Although arguably involved with the amount of Gatorade ingested, Armstrong’s multitude of toilet visits are taken to appease the Tour de France drug-testing folks. I’d wager he’s “volunteered” as much, if not more, than a couple bathtubs-full in his career.
So, with all these tests going on in professional sports, where do they put all the urine? After some research, my original hypothesis of giant “pee domes” is incorrect.
Apparently there is a huge vault the size of Long Island buried in the Nevada desert full of urine – and monkeys. The monkeys are only for decoration. Employees in the National Pee Lab spend an average $2 million annually on air freshener.
The U.S. government claims this research/storage facility doesn’t exist and any trespassers attempting to enter the “no-flush zone” will be shot. Furthermore, conspiracy theorists have tried for decades to reveal what really goes on underground – plumbing.
Unfortunately, a secret lockdown is the only way heavy hitters with unusually large forearms, like Jose Canseco, can’t gorilla his way out of their pathetic situation.
You’d think by the previous discussion, I would answer the first question above by stating something about athletic ethics, nefarious cheaters or home run records. This is simply untrue. I don’t like baseball because I hate hot dogs.
Call me strange, call me un-American or call me Al. I don’t care. The frankfurter-centric sport just isn’t my idea of fun.
For starters, players get paid millions of dollars a year to sit down on the bench for half of their work day. By the amount of sunflower seed shells found in dugouts after MLB games, it is certain that they truly are bored too.
The only thing that could possibly help the game go by enjoyably involves drinking copious quantities of beer. I’m not much of a malt fan, so all that is left to do at a ball game is eat hot dogs. Gross.
Let me reveal to you some of the dangerous secrets of hot dog consumption. As stated on packages of normal Ball Park brand franks, ingredients include:
-Beef and pork, mechanically separated turkey, water, corn syrup, partially hydrolyzed beef stock, sodium phosphate, flavorings and sodium nitrite.
Not even discussing what alarming cow and pig parts are used, there are three worrisome hot dog ingredients, the least being the poor turkey.
“Flavorings” also has me stumped, but I gather it includes a pinch of gross and a dash of yucky.
My problem is with sodium nitrite. According to the Material Safety Data Sheet put out by the U.S. government, this chemical can cause fire, heat, shock or explosion when it comes in contact with other materials, like … ketchup?
Furthermore, sodium nitrite is listed as a toxic substance that can irritate the mouth, esophagus or stomach. Not too bad? “Effects of poisoning include intense cyanosis, nausea, dizziness, vomiting, collapse, spasms of abdominal pain, rapid heart beat, irregular breathing, coma, convulsions and death due to circulatory collapse.”
What do you think of your precious hot dogs now?
My vote is to abandon all sports that leave the spectator with nothing better to do than be poisoned. I think I’ll just save my sports fanaticism for the next round of trespassers at the NPL.
Garrett Wheeler is a second bachelor’s student in technical theatre. Please send any comments or column ideas to wheel@cc.usu.edu