AND NOW A SPORTS COMMENTARY

BY Jock Welhungg

Where do we go when the world gets us down? When war
and poverty make us suicidal? When the creatures of
Uranus threaten to end it all in one Big Gulp
(copyright 7-11)?

We love our sports.

Big contracts? Who cares. I work for Worldcom.
Steroid use? So what. I can't get my husband to drag
his ass out of bed to clean the garage, so I'm going
down to PMS Park and watch the drug-induced
millionaires put on tight uniforms and play with their
balls. Contraction? Bite me. I've got eight kids, I
know pain.

But still something gnaws us like an eight-legged
freak. Is any of this real? Am I just using this as
an escape to avoid paying my bills, answering calls
from collectors and dealing with my teenage son's
rampant drug use and borrowing my panty-hose.

You bet your ass.

No, the New York Yankers winning another pennant isn't
going to get me a better job. If Mario Lemieux
unretires one MORE time and plays until his cancer
leaves him with no legs, one good eye and blurred
vision in the other eye, my mother-in-law will still
hate my guts.

The Towers fell but if Kurt Warner throws one less
interception and appears on one more box of
crappy-tasting cereal, I can face another day.

This is America. If you don't like our sports, you
can go to Uranus, where their version of Bocci ball
isn't exactly making local Uranites turn cartwheels.
Wemay get eaten down here, but I can still goon E-bay
and sell my autographed Casey Stengel upper set of
denture for top dollar.

And buy one more diseased hot dog for eight bucks and
say "Gif bkdleg Abdmeica".

Or at least swallow first.