Is it fair to say that all of us—baseball disciples and regular citizens alike—have heard all we care to hear about Roger Clemens?

Even if his resurfacing (one that is eerily reminiscent of the likes of Michael Meyers and Jason Voorhees) is nothing more than a publicity stunt engineered to create some interest in the moribund Houston Astros as they ride out the remainder of a truly abysmal season, it is enough already. 

Roger, please, just go away. 

As I continue to read about Clemens and listen to the myriad of reports that have somehow managed to pollute a variety of talks shows and sports blogs, I am left wondering just one thing: 

Is this guy for real? 

What's all the fuss? Why should anyone give Roger Clemens and his latest comeback any attention at all? What has he done to warrant any fanfare or reverence—or even a second thought? 

Did anyone even like this guy two comebacks ago? 

What about after his ridiculous appearance on 60 Minutes? 

If there were any amorous feelings lingering in even the most ardent Rocket supporters, the Mitchell Report should have certainly taken care of that. Whether he was convicted or not for the alleged use of steroids, I believe the American public is enlightened enough to know the truth.

Yes, it was O.J.'s glove, and President Clinton did have "sexual relations" with that woman.

Enough said. 

As to the veracity of the claim that Clemens' arm is still live, viable and major league material, who cares? It could not be any more immaterial. If Clemens took the mound and threw with Stephen Strasburg's velocity and Clayton Kershaw's precision, I would still rather watch soccer.  

Isn't there enough excitement this year in Major League Baseball with the emergence of prodigies Bryce Harper and Mike Trout? Hasn't the overachieving performance of  teams such as the Oakland Athletics and Pittsburgh Pirates provided enough compelling drama? 

And what about Major League Baseball's new playoff format, featuring two do-or-die games involving four wild-card teams? Isn't the excitement and uncertainty engendered by this interesting wrinkle enough to keep us interested? 

I could understand the distraction if we were talking about Roger Staubach or Roger Daltrey. Heck, even Roger Rabbit would make for a better story.

But this is Roger Clemens, folks. You remember him.

He's the charming Texan who, in the midst of the World Baseball Classic, told the racist "joke" about dry cleaners to describe a game between Japan and Korea. He's the same charmer who during an interleague game against the New York Mets fired the barrel of a broken bat at Mike Piazza, claiming later that he "thought it was the ball."

And let us not forget about the sordid relationship Clemens allegedly had with 15-year-old Mindy McCready, a country singer whom he met at a karaoke bar. 

Heard enough?   

Major League Baseball and its legion of followers would be wise to simply ignore Clemens and his unflagging  narcissism. Coverage of this alleged comeback is something better-suited for an episode of Celebrity Rehab. 

This Rocket's red glare is one steeped in controversy and perpetual ignominy. And it's still leaking fuel.