Somebody threw a syringe at Barry Bonds on Monday night. Hopefully, the San Diego Padres are giving that somebody free tickets for the remainder of the year. The problem is, Bonds picked up the syringe and took it toward the dugout with him-and nobody checked what was inside. I’m sure it was just flaxseed oil, though.

In all seriousness, the syringe incident ranks amongst the funniest heckles in professional sports history. Throwing a massive syringe onto the grass at PetCo Park in San Diego easily beats a verbal heckle or a clever sign, no matter how big. Anybody can scream “Hey Barry, you suck!” from the upper deck, but it takes a professional to smuggle medical supplies past ballpark security.

Over the last few days, there has been an outcry in the sports media about how throwing steroid paraphernalia crosses the line between funny and disgusting and about how PetCo security let the thrower get away with it, never tracking him or her down. Supposedly, even Jesse Jackson is sticking his nose into the issue, complaining about the apparent lack of security response to the incident.

But let’s face it: As fans, we have no other outlet to prove our point. Unless we sit directly underneath the press box, there is no way for anyone to hear the crafty, scathing and/or rhyming jabs at a player’s credibility. Our signs only make it on television if we manage to incorporate the letters of the network onto it. How do we transform “Baseball fans don’t like cheaters” into a four word phrase that starts with E, S, P and N, in that order?

Instead of admonishing them, we should applaud fans that come up with something new. Call it guerilla marketing or visual poetry, whichever tickles your fancy. Fans have expanded into new frontiers here, going beyond anything ever seen before.

By no means am I suggesting that fans go any further than something scathing or funny. We don’t want to see the live version of BasektBall’s “Dozen Egg Night,” where players are pelted by objects. Fans and players cross the line when they throw objects at each other out of anger or spite, whether that object is a ball, a battery or a half-full beer. Nor do I ever want to see another player or coach hurt by fans running on the field, like the brutal attack on Kansas City Royals first-base coach Tom Gamboa at Comiskey Park in Chicago. Obviously, I wasn’t a fan of the Ron Artest Royal Rumble, either.

Here is our outlet, though- a way to get something on national TV. Here is a fan, upset with everything that went wrong with baseball, showing some emotion. How many games did that person have to pay premium prices to watch Bonds play against the Padres? How many hours of Bonds programming has he watched on TV or read in magazines in the last month? Isn’t it only fair that if Bonds gets to ruin our day, we can mess with his?

To be fair to Barry, he shouldn’t be the only player who is “syringed” this year. Everyone who has ever been concretely tied to the doping menace in baseball should have such fate. Jason Giambi should get a bunch of toothpaste tubes with phony labels that say “The Cream” on them tossed his way at first base during every away series. The Toronto Blue Jays should host “Vitamin B-12 Shot Night” at least once this year when hosting division foes Baltimore, as a tribute to Rafael Palmiero.

The Rangers should hand a urine-testing kit to every skinny fan that enters The Ballpark at Arlington in honor of Seattle Mariner Matt Lawton’s bust at the end of last year.

So, fellow fans, remember that funny is good and revenge tastes sweet. These clowns prancing around with their two-million-dollar salaries and two-year-old “me first” attitudes should finally receive the karma that is due. So, Cardinal fans, set aside Sept. 15-17 for some baseball; when the Giants come to town, hopefully we can see some of those seven-day pill counters that your grandparents have covering the grass in leftfield. Anything less wouldn’t be fair to us.