I was at a store the other day looking for some running shorts.  Ones that you can actually wear in public, not those gross short little ones.  But I was distressed that a lot of running shorts aren’t more clearly labeled as such, since you need the… ahem… little built in liner in them.  So here’s what happens:

You walk around to each rack of shorts, then you open the shorts up and look inside to see if they have the liner.

By doing so, you look like a gross pervert that goes to stores to sniff the inside of men’s running shorts; or

By insisting the shorts have a liner in them, people think something is wrong with your balls.

Then other customers look at you, and give you the “what’s wrong with your balls?” look. (You know the one.)

Then a voice comes over the loudspeaker and says “CUSTOMER NEEDS HELP WITH HIS BALLS IN THE MEN’S SECTION.”

So basically, what I’m trying to say is:

I wish running shorts were better labeled.

Some of you may remember a column I wrote for SportsBubbler back in December in which I urged Milwaukee Bucks rookie guard Brandon Jennings to stop tweeting. (After falling victim to a hoax, he has since done so – at least publicly.)  As a result of that article, I got the chance to speak with writer Davy Rothbart, who just happened to be writing a feature on Jennings for GQ Magazine.  (He mentioned that it will be in the April edition of GQ.  I have yet to ask him when my photo shoot will take place – I imagine it’s in the works.)

What I didn’t realize at the time is that Davy Rothbart is the editor of FOUND Magazine, a publication that collects various letters, postcards, pictures, shopping lists, and other items that people just randomly find on the street, then compiles them.  I admit I\’m really late to this party – by the time I had heard of FOUND, two “best of” books had been printed and become bestsellers, and other people I knew had all heard of the phenomenon that is the magazine.  (I even ended up talking with my local librarians about it, as I overheard them talking about all the crazy notes and things they find in books when people return them.)

I went out and bought both books, and I was stunned at some of the items people had found and turned in to the magazine.  Some of the most moving entries are heartfelt notes people had written to others – some are merely comical in that they completely lack context. (Such as the note left on someone’s car that urges someone to “Please Do Not Put Crab on my Car.  Just cut it out!”)

Aside from just the prurient thrill of being able to gaze into someone’s life for a brief moment, some of the entries really serve as a mental exercise in time and space.  When people think about the problems in their lives, usually they can analyze them in terms of: 1) how they got into the predicament, 2) what all the relevant information to the problem is, and 3) what they need to do to get out of it.

And yet reading these letters allows for none of these three analytic tools.  You’re dropped right into the middle of a problem in someone’s life – you don’t know how that person got into trouble, you only know the information they have scrawled (inevitably, misspelled) onto a piece of paper, and you will never know if they got out of it.  Whether it’s a love note or a plea for a loved one to send money, or a threat to beat someone’s ass, there’s always a beginning, middle and an end – and you’re only getting one person’s interpretation of the middle.

There’s one entry that\’s so perfect, though, I had to share it here.  It’s called “Dear Lyle,” and it’s clearly a letter written by a confused, pregnant young girl to her boyfriend. (It was found by Sam Costello, of Ithaca, New York.)  I’ll just wait here in my slippers and smoking jacket while you read it….

OK, I just read it again, too.  And it’s almost too perfect – too heartbreaking – to be real.

First, the fact that it’s on half a ripped piece of paper is so representative of the content of the letter itself, it\’s almost eerie.  Reading only half of what this young woman is saying makes your brain jerk frantically around from topic to topic, much as hers probably was when she was writing it.  The fact that half her plea is missing almost makes you feel as hurried and confused as she was while she was making her decision to keep the child.  (For me, it recalls Tom Wolfe’s “Electric Kool Aid Acid Test,” in which Wolfe writes in such a way to make your mind careen around as if it were on LSD – which is what the book is all about.  It is also my favorite book.)

Furthermore, the ripped paper is also symbolic of this relationship as it moves forward.  It’s pretty clear the young mother is telling Lyle to stay away, so “we can go on with our lives.”  So, in effect, this child is going to have half a family – much as the note itself has been torn in half.  It’s almost too perfect.

And so here you are, immediately dropped into the life of a scared young girl trying to tell her child’s father that she’s going to go it alone.  And doing so with a disjointed, poorly spelled, crumpled up letter, that apparently Lyle didn’t think enough of to keep in one piece and/or keep in his possession.

Surely, one could sit for a while and think about possible scenarios that led up to this pregnancy, and what occurred afterward.  In fact, Rothbart published a book where people of note write about their favorite found items, and build stories around the details of what they imagine to be the genesis of such items. (It includes an essay by Chuck Klosterman, who I’m pretty sure would write something for Legless Nun Magazine at this point.  The guy is everywhere.)

In case I’m not doing justice to the whole FOUND phenomenon, here’s a video of one of Rothbart’s appearances on Letterman.  Good stuff.

So the world can stop worrying: John Edwards has a sex tape.  (Side note: Are they even “tapes” anymore? This already seems dated.)  It seems everyone has a sex tape these days – soon, potential employers won’t be judging applicants on whether they have a sex tape, but how good the tape actually is.  (“I like what you did there at the 3:46 mark, Chris.  I never would have considered wearing a Seattle Seahawks helmet and arm floaties to be so effective.  Welcome to the team here at Smith Barney.”)

I’ve given this some thought (although not specifically about the contents of Edwards’ video.)  And I have to admit – I just don’t understand the whole concept of the “sex tape.”  I mean, what could possibly be the upside in recording yourself having sex with someone else?  If I put together a list of “pros” and “cons,” they’d look like this:

CON:

The tape could fall into the wrong hands and my life could be ruined;

Suggesting taping this could cause these tentative sex negotiations to fall apart, forcing this woman to leave;

Upon viewing the tape, I could realize I am not the unstoppable stallion of love which I had envisioned;

This other person could use this tape to blackmail me for the remainder of my life.

PRO:

I’d only need about 45 seconds of tape, leaving my “Seinfeld” reruns intact.

—

Seems a little skewed, huh? Plus, it all just seems to be too much trouble.  As I tweeted, it never really appealed to me to join the “mile high club.”  Isn’t it difficult enough to join the “sea level club?” Why add a degree of difficulty?  I mean, I’m not exactly Paris Hilton or a Kardashian – leaking this tape isn’t going to propel me into superstardom or get me visits to the White House.*

I’m also fascinated by the mechanics of how this all goes down.  So, presumably, you bring a girl back to your place, and one thing leads to another.  Then, you casually mention… you want to pull out your video camera?  Has any woman in America ever said “yes” to this proposition? (Obviously, some have.  But none I’ve ever met.  I presume.)

Let’s say she says “yes.”  Then you spend the next fifteen minutes setting up the camera and tripod.  Maybe the battery isn’t charged all the way.  Maybe you have to fast forward through all the tape you’ve taken of your golf swing.  Awkward silence ensues.  In the meantime, she is starting to come to her senses and realize this could be a terrible idea.  (Unless you always have a video camera set up in your room, ready to go if this occasion arises – which is super creepy to begin with.)

After all this, let’s say this 300-to-1 pony comes in and she agrees to do it.  A week later, you decide to pop the tape in and have a look.  It would seem that this is where it gets really dicey.

See, when you finally trick some girl back to your house, and “stuff” happens, it gives the typical guy a big confidence boost.  You start to imagine yourself the way you presume she sees you – thin, attractive, and desirable.  This all occurs in a haze of lust, and presumably after a few Jose Cuervo-based drinks.

But after you watch the video, reality sets in.  You are not the Love God you remember – the starkness of the video shows that, in fact, you are pretty gross.  Furthermore, in the throes of passion, you didn’t notice that your companion had bullet holes in her ass and that she took out her dentures and put them on the side table.  She looks more like Popeye Jones than January Jones.

Is this the lingering memory you want of this encounter?  Of course not.  Why not stick with the alcohol-enhanced hazy bliss you remembered?

On second thought, given how much parents document their children these days, wouldn\’t it make sense to have a record of their conception on file?  Seems like it would make a good family movie night – unless your wife accidentally pulls out the tape with the pizza delivery guy on it.  Awkward.

* – With the New Orleans Saints winning the Super Bowl, Reggie Bush’s girlfriend, Kim Kardashian, will certainly accompany him on his White House visit.  Just two weeks ago, Khloe Kardashian accompanied her husband, Lamar Odom of the Los Angeles Lakers, to his White House visit.  Upon seeing Khloe, President Obama is said to have gone up to her and said “I like your TV show.”

Set aside the fact that Barack Obama says he watches “Keeping Up With the Kardashians.” The mere fact that he knows the show exists is an impeachable offense.  It’s actually slightly worse than if Obama was secretly e-mailing U.S. nuclear reactor blueprints to Kim Jong Il.

UPDATE: Dee Dubs sends along this video of Louis CK contemplating his next career move.  It’s definitely NSFW.

• The Flying Gallardo Brothers Edition (July 16, 2009)

• Brett Favre: The Man Who Never Learned the Value of Hate (July 29, 2009)

• Jason Kendall: Dead Catcher Walking (Aug. 5, 2009)

• Brewer Reporters: Who’s Got the Beat? (Aug. 11, 2009)

• Brett is Dead. (Aug. 21, 2009)

• Old School: Why We Still Love the Brewer Logo (Aug. 28, 2009)

• Wisconsin: The Home of Sports Bigamy (Sept. 10, 2009)

• The 10 Most Ridiculous Packers Items on eBay (Sept. 16, 2009)

• Packers Fans Need Love Too (Sept. 24, 2009)

• Live on Monday Night: Get Your Popcorn Ready (Oct. 1, 2009)

• Welcome to The 2009 Bucks’ White Stiff Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony (Oct. 15, 2009)

• The Day Milwaukee Almost Killed the NFL (Oct. 22, 2009)

• So You Think You Can Be a Sports Reporter? (Nov. 12, 2009)

• OMG! Tell Brandon Jennings to Stop Tweeting! ROFLMAO! (Dec. 17, 2009)

• A Day at Lambeau: Playoff Bound Edition (Dec. 28, 2009)

• This One’s For the Ladies: The Crazy Days of the Milwaukee Does (Jan. 5, 2010)

• McGwire, McGwire, Pants on Fire (Jan. 12, 2010)

• The Colored Past of Wisconsin Sportswriting (Jan. 27, 2010)

Note: I will be on Sunday Insight With Charlie Sykes this weekend to talk about you know what.  Chances of me swearing on the air stand at about 80 percent.

When the Bubbler first asked me to write something for Wednesday, of this week, I gladly acquiesced. Then, Black Tuesday hit, and word spread that Brett Favre had officially become a purple headed warrior.

Tuesday night found me sitting in front of my computer, staring blankly at my laptop screen, my head buried in my hands. I felt like the last guest at a 1979 three-day party at Paul Molitor’s house. I was confused and disoriented. I started using my tooth brush to comb my hair. I accused a house plant of re-arranging my CDs in reverse alphabetical order, just to mess with me. I started to actually believe it’s not butter.

People who know me know that I am rarely at a loss for words. But I had none. How was I supposed to bring a fresh perspective to a story that had been reported and blogged by thousands of others? How was I supposed to describe the deeply personal grieving process each Packer fan was dealing with on their own?

The task proved too immense for the cognitive limits of my own skull. It was bigger than me. It was bigger than Melissa Joan Hart during her pregnancy. I had to seek outside counsel. I turned to a place that deals with monumental concepts, like the meaning of life, whether we actually exist, and why food served as a “smorgasbord” is less appetizing just because the word “smorgasbord” is so terrible. I needed the world of philosophy.

In 1882, Friedrich Nietzsche published “The Gay Science,” in which he uttered his most infamous line, “God is Dead.” In making this assertion, Nietzsche was attacking the underpinnings of Christianity – that is, that God served as the basis for meaning in the lives of Europeans for centuries. Without God, Nietzsche argued, all universal perspective on things would be lost – thus, there would be no objective truth on which everyone could agree. People would be guided by their own perspectives, rather than those supposedly created by God.

Clearly, Nietzsche had Green Bay Packer fans in mind when he cooked this theory up. (Although his mustache really cries out “Oshkosh.”)

For 16 years, Brett Favre was the one thing on which all Wisconsinites could agree. He was the fabric that held us all together – regardless of race, religion, or vertical leap, we pulled for him every week. Brett Favre was our universal perspective. And now he’s dead to us. Much like Nietzsche conceived after the death of a Christian God, Packer fans have been cast adrift with the death of the Favre persona. Nothing makes sense anymore. Normally sane Packer fans have been heard to say things like “I hope the Vikings do well in the games they’re not playing the Packers.” People have started attacking our state’s mayors. The Octomom has her own television show. The State of Wisconsin has been thrown into a state of apocalypse.

(In another freak coincidence, God also has a torn rotator cuff.)

As the story goes, Nietzsche died after a nervous breakdown that caused him to carry jello around in his pants and wander the streets of Turin trying to teach stray dogs to play the harmonica.* (According to some historians, he tried to sign Eric Gagne to a $10 million contract – but others have pointed out that someone clinically insane wouldn’t do something that stupid.)

And now, I know how he feels. The chances of me running naked down the middle of the highway while wearing orange arm floaties and a coal miner’s helmet has increased to better than break even.** Brett Favre plunging Ragnar’s sword into the back of each and every Packer fan has left us a broken, listless state. The only thing we have in common now is our love of bratwurst and cheese curds, the combination of which will kill us within months. Which seems to have been Purple Judas’ plan all along.

* – This is not true.

** – This is true.

Speaking of the Packers, if you caught the exhibition game last week against the Browns, you may have seen Jesse Garcia’s interview with the newly Rubenesque Keith Jackson. Jackson was wearing his old Packer jersey and instead of number 88, he should have been wearing number “Ate-ate.” Jackson now clearly carries more pounds than he does career yards receiving.

This seemed to be a little odd to me, since skill players usually seem to stay in pretty good shape after retirement. Guys like Jerry Rice and Emmitt Smith get to go on “Dancing With the Stars” and live fairly normal lives within the bounds of society.

It’s always the linemen that I felt sorry for after they get cut or retire. Starting at the age of 12, most of them are on ridiculous super-calorie diets meant to fatten them up like a school lunch lady. But when they can’t play football anymore, they just become another giant fat guy with bad knees. Set aside the fact that 99% of their names are completely unknown to the public, so everybody could care less about their post-career well being. They fall victim to health problems, and even worse, women who don’t like fat dudes.

You’re telling me right now that Mark Tauscher isn’t sitting at home in his flannel underwear and slippers laughing hysterically at an episode of “Brooke Knows Best” while his cats lick KFC grease out of his unkempt beard?

By the way, has anyone else figured out how weird it is that the best Packer and Brewer players seem to resemble each other? Think about the years that Brett Favre and Geoff Jenkins were leading their respective teams, and being confused for one another.  An example:

Now, 2009 NFL MVP Aaron Rodgers and Ryan Braun bear a strong resemblance, although Rodgers seems to be much more of a neck beard enthusiast, with his various facial hair creations:

Right? Am I crazy? (If I am, I blame Brett Favre – see above.)

More importantly, in order to keep this phenomenon alive, the Brewers have 20 years to find an all-star that looks just like my 3-year old son, who will obviously be quarterbacking the Packers in 2029. (I’m already willing to sell you his jersey – it’s a barely worn #4 jersey with our last name sewn over whoever used to have that number for the Packers.)

I actually wrote an article about Favre a couple of weeks ago, in which the opening line was “The Ego Has Landed.”  On Wednesday, Mike Hunt at the Journal Sentinel wrote a Favre column with the headline “The Ego Has Landed.”  I’m not saying, I’m just saying.

I actually really don’t have much to say about the Brewers, in the same way I probably won’t talk much publicly about my next anal rash. But I do have to express some disgust with the fact that they would allow newly called up Jason Bourgeois to wear number 16. How dare they disrespect franchise legend Pat Listach in such a callous manner?

Finally, my 5 year-old daughter was distraught by Tiger Woods’ collapse at the PGA last weekend. Not because he lost, but because she wanted to make sure he at least got a ribbon for coming in second place. I told her he’d probably be okay.

Some links:

San Diego sports columnists apparently are experts on when Wisconsin fans should be upset with Favre.

This sets a promising precedent for those of you looking for the nude Johnny Jolly photo spread.

What’s wrong with Jemele Hill urging Packer fans to give Favre some new batteries?  Oh…she meant what?

You, too, can teach your lady how to watch football! (Via KSK)

The NCAA says that 2007-08 never really happened.  Can they invalidate the 10 pounds I gained that year, too?

This column tries to pitch Ken Griffey, Jr. as the anti-Favre, because he promises to do the Mariners fans a favor and stay retired.  But didn’t he leave Seattle for a boatload of cash once already?  I’m just saying.

Nate Robinson pulled the whole “don’t you know who I am” act with police this week.  In Wisconsin, it’s usually just our politicians that do it.

If Wisconsin is serious about promoting public transportation, this is the way to do it.

Police Get a Shock When Taser Briefly Ignites Suspect.  Money quote from the police chief: “Clearly, this is not the way we’d hoped to get started.”

Oh, and for those of you at home keeping score, I hit my first legit softball home run last week.

Okay, before I get started, let me pimp my blog real quick.  There, that was harmless, wasn’t it?  Oh, and if you haven’t listened to my podcast with Trenni Kusnierek last week, there is a hole in your life.

Before I expose my links, a few thoughts:

If you’re a Brewers fan, you have no doubt seen videos of Yovani Gallardo’s family sitting in the front row of his games against the Astros, enthusiastically cheering him on.  They, honest to God, seem like the most fun group of brothers ever.  They all look exactly alike, each with a more outrageous mustache than the other.   I demand that the Brewers start leasing them out to events – you’re telling me your kids’ birthday party wouldn’t be 80% more fun with the crazy Gallardo Brothers party in attendance?  Bring the Flying Gallardo Brothers to your next keg party, and you could charge 20 bucks a head, easy.  This is my plea to the Brewers organization – THINK ABOUT THIS.

I learned on the Twitter that the MLB All Star game was Tuesday night.  Seemed to be a decent showing for Prince Fielder and Trevor Hoffman, but after going 0-for3, Ryan Braun ran into the dugout and demanded that the NL All Stars trade for better pitching.

After the game, the Twins’ Justin Morneau whined that the Canadian National Anthem was played via audio recording.  SUCK IT UP, FRENCHIE – Isn’t that reasonable payback for us having to watch Michael J. Fox on those MLB commercials?  We made Seth Rogen a millionaire, but they just want more, more, more.

This caption contest for a Braunie and Prince picture will depress you.

Tom Haudricourt stops the presses with this molten hot scoop: The Brewers are looking to play well in the second half of the season.  In the meantime, Buster Olney is hiding out in Doug Melvin’s mustache, waiting for trade news.

I know the new Republican talking point is that President Obama throws like a girl (FYI, THIS is how you throw out a first pitch), but I think we need to be more critical of his attire.  I mean, seriously – ’80s-style baggy jeans?  Who told Obama that it was appropriate to throw out the first pitch dressed as Sinbad?

Since I’m a politics guy, I have to throw this in: Obama says Supreme Court Justice Nominee Sonya Sotomayor “saved baseball” by ordering MLB players back on to the field in 1995, following the players’ strike that cost us a 1994 World Series.  Not so fast, says Bob Costas:

Oh, and having solved the economy, job losses, home foreclosures, health care, and the wars in the middle east, Congress is going to fix the BCS system.

I have two NFL jerseys hanging in my closet: Brett Favre and Michael Vick.  Which is more embarrassing to wear in public?  Discuss.

Speaking of Favre, I am rooting for John David Booty to bleed him dry for the right to wear number 4 for the Vikings.  Make him pay more than $100,000, and we’ll forget all about the fact that you have a serial killer name, John David Booty.

From what I understand, during the tailgating for one of the Twins-Brewers games at Miller Park, one moron was spotted wearing a Favre #4 Vikings jersey.  There is no judge in Wisconsin that would convict anyone arrested for beating that idiot to a pulp.  As my friend Stephen Thompson routinely says, the whole Favre saga is akin to your parents getting divorced, and your dad filming porn with your mom\’s worst enemy and making you watch.  I actually think that’s a bit understated.

The NBA’s summer league is underway, and if you want to watch it, you have to buy some kind of internet package at NBA.com.  Young Money is turning some heads early.  In watching the video, his body language is clearly influenced by Allen Iverson – of course, that might be a byproduct of the fact that he wears #3.  (Which I thought the Bucks retired out of respect for Shawn Respert for being the worst draft pick in franchise history.)

Here’s a list of players in the league – of local note, Jerel McNeal, Wes Matthews, Joe Krabbenhoft, Marcus Landry, Clay Tucker, and Alando Tucker are all on teams.  It appears former Badger Greg Stiemsma is on the list too, but I\’m not sure if that means he’s on a team, or he was the first viewer to subscribe to the internet package.

If you have to publicly declare something you do isn’t racist, it’s at the very least a little racistey.

The British Open starts today, but wait – you’re only supposed to call it “The Open.”  Maybe Justin Morneau complained that calling it the British Open left Canadians out.

If you managed the Cubs once, getting the job managing the hapless Washington Nationals would seem like a dream job to you, too.

Friday Night Lights is only going 2 more seasons, and Connie Britton says they’re not even starting to film Season 4 until this September.  Oh, and please God, let Mad Men start again. (It does on August 16th.)

From an article discussing the gay community’s reaction to the movie Brüno:

“There were many gay people in the audience, some notable Washington gays and lesbians, some of whom are involved, peripherally or otherwise, in “the movement.”

From now on, I demand to be identified as “notable heterosexual.”

If you’re playing golf with this guy, you may want to make sure you’re hitting your own ball.

Incredibly, alcohol may have been involved.

I might be the most potent man alive.

I SAID A TIGER RIDING A HORSE, PEOPLE!

Today’s fun fact: In 1949, both the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox sent scouts down to Birmingham to watch a promising youngster named Willie Mays.  Both declined to sign him because he was black.  In fact, the Birmingham Black Barons were actually affiliated with the Red Sox, but they refused to purchase his contract, as pitching coach Larry Woodall said Mays wasn’t the “Red Sox type.”  And thus, Mays was denied the chance to play in the outfield with either Ted Williams or Joe Dimaggio because he was black.  If we continue to praise teams like the Brooklyn Dodgers for being so “open minded,” shouldn’t we also continue to deride the teams that were the most notoriously racist?  Maybe ESPN should throw this fact in when they devote every minute of their air time to covering Boston and New York.

Finally, today’s music: Considered by some to be the worst video ever made. On the other hand, in case you missed the ’80s, it sums the whole decade up in about 3 minutes.

Is there a better time of the year to be in Wisconsin than right now?  The weather is cooling off just a bit, the leaves are starting to change, and tailgating season has begun.  You get to exhume from the closet the one sweater you have that makes you look skinny.  Young male high school graduates head off to college with the hopes of one day being able to have a sexual experience with someone else in the room.  The Brewers complete their traditional disastrous August, leaving Wisconsin sports fans to dream about the upcoming Packer season.  And Marquette fans don their red sweatshirts and head off to Madison to root for the Badgers.

Wait… what?

It’s true.  In a phenomenon virtually unique to Wisconsin, we have two major universities who are bitter rivals; one with a major Division I football team, one without.  And the UW holds a monopoly on big time college football in the state.  So every fall, Marquette students and alums who want to root for an in-state football school dutifully don the cardinal and white and head to Camp Randall Stadium on Saturday afternoons.

It’s the height of what ESPN columnist Bill Simmons calls “sports bigamy.”  But it’s even worse, given that the two schools are such fierce rivals on the basketball court.  Wisconsin and Marquette have played 115 times in men’s basketball, with MU holding a 63-52 edge on the Badgers – largely on the strength of the Al McGuire-led teams of the 1970s.  In fact, until their Final Four appearance in 2000, the enduring image of Wisconsin Badger basketball was a photo taken of Glenn Hughes, the father of Badgers Kim and Kerry Hughes, giving McGuire the finger after a Warrior victory in February of 1974.

But now, with both teams perennial Top-25 quality (Bo Ryan amassed a 173-60 record in his first seven years), the rivalry is as intense as ever.  Both schools not only compete for recruits, but media time in the state.  In March of this year, the New York Times highlighted the animosity between the teams with these stories from MU’s Wesley Matthews and the UW’s Keaton Nankivil:

Nankivil, who was two years behind Matthews at Memorial High in Madison, remembers Matthews showing up for open-gym games at Wisconsin and nobody selecting him. Marcus Landry, a Wisconsin forward from Milwaukee, said the former Marquette coach Tom Crean had sent an assistant to ask him to leave when he was playing pick-up games at Marquette.

And it’s not just in sports that the schools compete.  They compete for both students and prestige in the state.  Marquette students see Badgers as hippie drunks that they are forced to subsidize with their tax dollars.  Badger fans see Marquette students as elitist drunks whose school can’t even settle on what to call itself.  MU students want to get to know Jesus – UW students merely want to look like him.  UW-Madison has a hilly, green campus where students dream of a world without war – Marquette has a gritty, inner city campus where students merely dream of a world where they still have a car stereo.  Marquette has Freeway, UW-Madison has Scanner Dan.  UW has the Wisconsin Idea, Marquette has Sobelman’s burgers. (A wash.) You get the picture.

So it’s unique that come football season, so many Golden Eagle/Warrior loyalists are able to compartmentalize their dislike of the UW and root on the Badger football team.  But it’s also unsettling.

I tried to look at states where a similar situation existed: A private college with a top-25 level basketball team has its fans migrate over to one giant state school for football season.  In most cases, there are more than one über-state school for which to root – Michigan and Michigan State, for instance.  Or it’s a situation akin to the states in the Northeast, who don’t have any football at all of note, and only minor basketball teams (Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, the Dakotas, Montana, etc.)

“Mr. Sportsbubbler” Dan Walsh mentioned Creighton, whose fans have to root for Nebraska’s Big Red if they want to stay in-state for football.  But if your most notable alum is Kyle Korver, that probably eliminates you from the “rivalry” category.  Other smaller basketball schools are stuck in states with limited football options, but none with the pedigree of Marquette.

So for the next few months, Warrior fans will continue to wear their Badger paraphernalia on game day, then throw it in the bottom drawer and pretend it doesn’t exist come December.  Perhaps the state needs another football powerhouse – can’t we expand the UW-Eau Claire into Wisconsin State or something in order to give Marquette fans more options?  Wisconsin Tech?  Wisconsin A&M?  Bret Bielema may need somewhere to coach after this year, anyway – it’s a win-win-win.

Lombardi Abuse

During the Packer preseason games, has anyone caught the Habush, Habush and Rottier commercials?  The ones where personal injury attorney Robert Habush begins by quoting Vince Lombardi, saying “when you score a touchdown, act like you’ve been there before?” (Some credit these types of lawsuits with the high cost of health care, and studies have shown that medical malpractice ads have grown 1,400 percent in the past four years.)

This has me distraught on many levels.  First, do we even care who gets to use Lombardi’s quotes anymore?  Do we know what Saint Vince’s position on ambulance chasing trial attorneys was?  This is a common Wisconsin problem: a textbook case of Lombardi abuse.

Maybe the next Habush commercial should go further in invoking Lombardi: “Winning job-killing settlements against businesses isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.”  Or “when we chase down million dollar judgments, it’s like the old Packer sweep.”

Is nothing sacred anymore?  Are we going to see butt cream commercials citing Lombardi?  “Winners never quit and quitters never use Uncle Slappy’s Antifungal Anal Salve!”

How about this – can’t we just leave dead people alone?  Remember the commercials where Fred Astaire was dancing around with a Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner?  John Wayne was exhumed to sell Coors beer.  Recall the ads where they had the deceased Bob Dole using a Visa card?

Wait… he what?

It gets even worse – in the future, who even knows what’s going to be a legal product?  People could end up endorsing things that weren’t socially acceptable during their lifetimes.  What if in 2030 some big legalization movement takes hold, and someday we have the option to buy “Bob Uecker’s Private Select Dime Bags?”

The Highest of Honors

While it was entertaining to watch Wisconsin’s own Steve Stricker with the Deutsche Bank Classic golf tournament, I had to chuckle when they talked about his hometown.  Apparently Edgerton, Wisconsin (population 5,300) actually had a Steve Stricker Day!  How did everyone get off work for that?  Imagine how honored he must have been!  Shouldn’t they hold a parade for any Edgerton native that manages to brush their teeth for three consecutive days?

Today’s fun fact:

Prior to 1961, attendees to Milwaukee Braves games could actually carry in their own beers.  The practice ended that year, and Braves attendance dropped to 1,101,441, less than half their previous high, set in 1957. (Part of this had to do with the team’s decline in play, but don’t underestimate the effect of taking Milwaukeeans’ beer from them.)

Can you even imagine if they held even one “BYOB” night at Miller Park?  Chances the stadium would still be standing by midnight: 1 in 20.  Would we see the world’s first “three fisted slobber?”  Someone would find a way, trust me.

Behind the Times

I spent last night watching America’s Sweetheart, Melanie Oudin, go down in flames in her quarterfinal U.S. Open match.  Until Wednesday, Oudin had beaten so many women even Shawne Merriman was impressed.

But does anyone still find it strange that women only play best of three sets, while the men play best of five?  Are we still under the impression that women don’t have enough endurance to last that long?  (If anything, the opposite is true in my household.)

I’m certainly no feminist, but this practice seems a little out of place in today’s PC world.  It seems ironic that in sports, which people credit with so much positive social change, there are still little pockets that refuse to adapt to the times – simply because we’re always done things that way.  That’s why we’ll always have a team called the Redskins, and why we’ll still call it the Big Ten when it has eleven teams. (Which is infinitely more offensive.)

Finally, my buddy Jay wanted to show everyone his fancy new Aaron Kampman jersey:

Also available in Jarrett Bush (#24), Quinn Johnson (#45), Brandon Chillar (#54), and Jarious Wynn (#94), among others.  My personal option would be to make it Vince Workman (#46), so it doubles in value as a throwback jersey.  Always thinkin’.

Finally Bill Simmons talks to Patton Oswalt about “Big Fan,” a movie I desperately want to see.

Today’s song: Kings of Convenience

Our mailman, Darryl, is awesome.  Sometimes, when he drops off our mail, he’ll stop and chat for a little – about Netflix movies, world events, whatever.  (And if that means your mail is delayed by 40 seconds, my apologies.)  When word got out in our neighborhood that Darryl might be reassigned to a different route, a dozen or so neighbors wrote to the post office to make sure we got to keep him.

(How these people find these things out is beyond me.  Maybe there’s a short wave postal service personnel scanner that they can sit at home and listen to.)

My wife found out, however, that Darryl has to have surgery in a couple weeks.  He’s going to be laid up for a month or so.  One of our neighbors apparently has his address, and offered it up to people that want to send him cards and such.

But here’s my question – what if we send him a card before he actually has his surgery?  He’ll show up to our house and pick up a letter that has his address on it.  Freaky.  Can he then just take it home, or does he have to take it to the post office, run it through the system, and sit at home and wait for it to get to him?  Doesn’t it seem like it would be breaking the law for him to just shove it in his pocket?

I guess the other option would be to send him an e-mail.  But you’d think postal workers loathe e-mail – it’s like the auto workers of the ’80s suddenly being replaced by machines.  Now, I can do all my stalking of old girlfriends for free on the internet, rather than having to pay to mail them pictures of myself riding a horse while wearing leopard print spandex.  And that COSTS PEOPLE JOBS.

Long before Early Man invented fire and hammers, he was using the most rudimentary tool of all – pretending to like the environment to pick up women.  Even in college, I occasionally told girls that I belonged to Greenpeace in order to see if they’d investigate the global warming in my drawers.  (It even worked from time to time – once every two years, like clockwork.)

A few weeks ago, I went to a concert and ended up at a bar with some sort-of co-workers.  Immediately, a bearded greaseball standing at the bar came over and started chatting up a comely young member of our group.  She asked this guy what he did for a living, and it gave him the opening he needed.  He handed her one of his business cards, and he told her he “owned his own business.”  When prodded further, he said this business was a “green painting business.”  (I asked him why he didn’t have any other colors.)

But of course, he meant he used “green” paint, as in “environmentally conscious” paint.  So what had traditionally been a pretty nondescript college job has now been turned into pious crusade by this young entrepreneur.  He explained that all his paint was “green” because it didn’t have any lead in it – never mind the fact that no paint manufacturer has put lead in their paint for over 30 years.  (The girl he was talking to is pretty conservative, so she jokingly told him the more lead the paint had in it, the better.)

So with this encounter, I officially declare the “green” movement to have jumped the shark.  (Much like using the term “jumped the shark” has jumped the shark.)  It’s now official – you can literally throw the word “green” in front of anything and make it seem like you’re a crusader for the environment.  And girls eat it up.

So I’m fine with this guy trying to spin his crappy job into some booty.  But he owes royalties to those of us who paved the way over the span of decades by lying to women about our environmental credentials in order to make out with them.  Somewhere up in heaven, there’s some dude who chained himself to a tree in 1678, and had women doing his laundry for him for the next 30 years.  A little respect, please.

(When this environmental BS finally falls out of fashion again, my recommended pickup line to girls would be, “do you like the internet?”)

Have a look at this award-winning French short film, entitled “Skhizein.”  It stuck with me for a while.

I spent last weekend in Washington, D.C. at the Defending the American Dream Summit put on every year by the national  chapter of Americans for Prosperity.  Which means I was on planes a lot.  Fortunately for me, I was able to catch a direct flight back to Madison from Reagan National Airport – a flight which I didn’t even know existed.  But there were glitches.

It was one of these shuttle planes, which are smaller than the big 747s, or whatever.  It turns out that I had the aisle seat in the front row of the plane.  As one old woman walked through the door to get on the plane, she turned to the flight attendant and said, loudly,  “THIS LITTLE PLANE IS GOING ALL THE WAY TO MADISON?”

Later in the flight, I joked with Courtney, the flight attendant, about that lady getting on the plane – as if this old woman expected the plane to have a lawn mower engine in it or something.  Courtney said “yeah, I should totally have said ‘I’m always SO surprised when we make it there!'”

(Side note:  The first seat on the plane is really awkward, since the flight attendant is sitting two feet in front of you, facing you.  You really have to go out of your way to not look at her.  So I decided to chat with her a little.  And that’s my excuse.)

When everyone was on board, my girl Courtney came over and asked me if I would do her a favor.  I said “sure,” without knowing what this “favor” would be.  She said she needed me to go sit in the back of the plane TO BALANCE THE PLANE OUT. This was not reassuring.  How could my body weight balance out a plane with 50 people on it?

I said I’d do it, so I stood up and said “are you calling me fat?”  Laughs were had by the people at the front of the plane at my joke.  Then, I realized this was a captive audience.  They couldn’t go anywhere. I should totally start hijacking planes just to get people to listen to my bad jokes.  I’d be arrested for bombing on a plane without actually having any explosives on me.

For my cooperation, Courtney actually gave me an extra bag of peanuts.  This was meaningful to me, for an episode that occurred on the way to D.C.

On my flight from Cincinnati to D.C., I sat behind Mike Huckabee.  (I tweeted that I hoped Huckabee being on the plane didn\’t mean that God was our co-pilot.  I much prefer a licensed human being steering the plane.)  When it came time to get our peanuts, the flight attendant gave Huckabee THREE BAGS of peanuts.  I only got one.  I was outraged.

So, apparently, all you have to do to get the star treatment on a Delta flight is to run for President.  I might begin my candidacy for 2012 right now if it means I can get the whole can of Coke instead of those little 3 ounce cups they give you.  So I know Huckabee gives of this “regular guy” vibe, but h\’s clearly soaking in all the accoutrements of stardom, including bonus snacks.

(SIDE NOTE: While waiting for my flight back out to Madison, I saw Rahm Emanuel de-plane, flanked by a parade of secret service guys.  Which made me think that if I’m ever important, I would much rather choose to be accompanied by Victoria’s Secret Service.

We’re getting our house painted.  But on the west side of the house, it appears there was an underground beehive, so the bees were terrorizing the guy doing the painting.  I tried spraying down into the hole with bee killer, but they all just came back in force.  So my wife called a bee exterminator.  (And trust me, there is nothing more emasculating than your wife having to call a specialist to remove a bee hive.  If there were a list of “reasons women continue to talk to men,” beehive removal would be on it.  Right behind “making babies.”)

Anyway, I had to run home during work to greet the bee guy.  He went on for 20 minutes about this super special potion he had that would kill the bees, or at least insult them to the point that they wouldn’t return.  (I imagined him standing next to the hive and telling “yo momma” jokes for an hour.)

He said the hive was pretty easily accessible, so he wouldn’t charge me much.  He said he’d have to charge me full price if he had to put on the bee suit and dig around to get the hive out.

I admit, this made me chuckle a little bit, since I pictured the “bee suit” as an actual bee costume.  Like if he were the Georgia Tech Yellowjacket mascot or something.  But I realized why going this route would be more expensive.

First, upon putting on the bee suit, it would take him a while to get to know them – infiltrate their bee society.  Get to know their traditions and customs.  Befriend enough of them to be trusted.

Then, at Thanksgiving dinner, having earned their trust, he turns on them and sprays them all.  Someone yells “I knew it was you – you broke my heart!” Then he grabs the yams and takes off running.  Then I pay him $75.

But instead, he just sprayed the hive.  Seems like it worked.