Point: A-Rod should have as many centaur themed self-portraits as he wants

Really, just imagine you're a woman. Just four hours ago you were drinking vodka-cranberries in your studio apartment with four co-workers you really doesn't know or like all that much. You applied a thong and lipstick for the 10,000th time, and now, after barely ten minutes of chit chat with the guy, you're walking into the $8 million upper west side luxury apartment owned by none other than the New York Yankee's Dominican Prince, Alex Rodriguez.

You slip off your knee-high laced heels because he says he's got a "Japanese thing going", and feel beneath your feel the comfort of the finest rug the D.R. has ever exported. A is off in some hidden room, prepping. The walls are covered with framed action shots of some of Alex's greatest swings, diving plays, and photo-ops with urban youth. Three hanging candelabras burn, and you breathe the fine aroma of honeydew, Gold Bond, and waxed pubis.

Then, you hear a voice. From out of no where, a satyr dressed in a tuxedo emerges with a glass of champagne on a tray. His face resembles A's, except it shifts when you look closely. You don't look. You take the champagne and walk turn away in disgust. But when you glance back, you see him, A. The Rod.

"Come on Dottie."
"Joanie"
"Danny."

He beckons you, and you say nothing. What is left to say. You've been called by the king of kings to his love chamber. You walk down a long dark hallway lit only sporadically with candles high above your head. The hallway feels endless, and you're kind of wondering where the bathroom is. You feel gassy, and you know its unhealthy to hold it. Oh well.

At the end of the hallway is a room, glowing like fire. As you near, you feel the radiance of the divine, the gentle stabbing of ecstasy. A seems to grow as the light get's brighter, heavier, and he's full now, grown into something new, something pure and eternal. You're there. He turns and behind him, above his fifteen foot diameter bed, is a portrait of Alex Rodriguez in his natural, god-given form.

Without that coup de grace, where would A-Rod be, eh?