Justin Gatlin, as I mentioned on Deadspin yesterday, has failed a drug test. Testosterone was the culprit, as it seems so popular among the kids today. The world’s fastest man had failed a test once before, and could be facing a lifetime ban for this one.

From now on, anytime anyone in the world accomplishes something noteworthy, I’m just going to assume they did it with the help of some kind of banned substance. Guy wins the Tour de France? He’s probably injecting horse testosterone. Guy breaks the world 100m sprint record? He’s got the needle in his ass right now. Condoleeza Rice negotiates peace in the middle east? Probably coked out of her skull. J.E. Skeets writes a funny blog post? Without question, in the midst of a heroin binge.

Gatlin and his coach have chosen to go with the Marion Berry defense, something along the lines of, “Bitch set me up.” They’re claiming that some dirty massage therapist rubbed testosterone cream into him without his knowledge. You know, that’s odd, when I visit massage parlors, I’m looking to produce a little bit of testosterone cream myself.

I’m not saying I’m skeptical, but… hey, I’m skeptical. I’m not saying I don’t believe him, I’m not saying I do. But the “I got set up” bit is a little bit dramatic, isn’t it? Was this massage therapist hired by rival sprinter Asafa Powell? Was it one of Dr. Evil’s henchmen? Was it Frau Farbissina? Random Task, perhaps?

Some of you, when you were a kid, and you got caught smoking, or drinking, as a punishment, would then have to smoke a whole pack (or bag), or drink the whole bottle. I think the punishment for unnaturally high testosterone levels should be the the same. It’ll work the same way. At first, they’ll think it’s cool. But as soon as they have a testosterone level higher than any human or animal ever in recorded history, and they’re running around fucking any object in front of them, without or without a hole in it, it won’t be so cool anymore.

Seriously. Pump a gallon of synthetic testosterone into a guy, and he’ll fuck anything. About halfway through the second hour of making violent love to a concrete garden gnome, he’ll never touch the stuff again.