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Most people don't even know what they're talking about with steroids, pardner. Steroids make you better. Let me share a little personal experience with you to illustrate my point to those of you journalism youngsters who've never eaten an pickled bull's testicle in the name of athletic achievement. 


Mr. Universe. 1975. I haven't eaten anything in 24 hours and have only consumed my own urine on the advice of my Russian nutritionist. The hunger is gnawing at my brain. I can't think. I literally can't think, but that's fine. Ol' Brent's not here to look good. Brent's here to turn his back to the crowd at the pose-off, spread those wings, and soar off to victory on my bronzed godlike lats over the African savannah. 

How did I get here, you ask, posing off on the same stage against Franco Columbu, Albert Beckles, Frank Zane? Me, Ol' Humble Montana Boy with a natural body weight of 165 and the same khakis I've had since my rumpus days at Northwestern? Steroids, son. They made me what I am today, and allowed me to get all the way here so I could starve myself into pure posing power form for the finals, looking into the mirror at 215 pounds of rippling glory. 

It wasn't easy. You kids have it so easy these days. We had to guess about what worked. I took chimp testosterone once. I set a record on my deadlift that day, and then woke up three days later underneath the Santa Monica pier with a bloody shovel in my hand and no recollection of where I'd been. An unstable batch of corticosterone turned my cock green and made me hear everything in French for a week. I've since appreciated Truffaut at a level I thought impossible. It's not all onions and shoelace soup, I tell you, though the breasts I grew after an imbalanced cycle of Venezuelan panther testosterone did require some surgery (though not before an unbelievable weekend at Carnival in Rio. I never kiss and tell, but boyo do they know how to treat a lady. And a man. And a lady man man.) 

Anyway, Ol' Brent knows what he's talking about here, and don't believe the critics. Steroids and pro athletes are a fine match. Lyle Alzado was lying anyway. He didn't get cancer from steroids, he got cancer from flossing with high-voltage power lines. Warned him about that for years, but Lyle set his own compass and you have to respect him for that.