?The Giffords' Ultra Slim-Fast commercials. Please. Fat has never made it to within a county line of these two. Even at 60, Frank looks as if he could brush his teeth and beat up Mickey Rourke at the same time. Kathie Lee could've worn a black strapless mini the day before she delivered. And they're telling us to take it off and keep it off? Hey, you two, don't press it. We know where Regis lives.
? Greg Norman. The only interesting thing about Norman lately is guessing what his excuse for losing is this week:
1) Somebody holed out from the snack shack; 2) Norman hurt his back hitting from the snack shack; 3) the snack shack fell on Norman. Forget it. No more feeling sorry for this guy. Until he stops opening tournaments with 78s, which he did in three of his last six majors, or blowing five-stroke leads with eight holes to go, which he did Sunday, he's Mike Hulbert with better hair.
? David Stern. The savior of the NBA. Made it popular again. Deserves the $27.5 million deal. Right. And if Wolf Blitzer had taken the job as Stern did, at the same time Magic and Bird were hitting their strides, we'd be saying the same about him.
?Baseball as poetry. Ken Burns, the director of the brilliant PBS documentary The Civil War, says he will spend the next four years of his life making a series on baseball. Nice. First George Will, now this guy. This kills me. Most baseball players barely get out of high school, won't read anything that doesn't have an ad for X-Ray Specs in the back and spend an inordinate percentage of their lives trying to see how many jockstraps they can fill with Nair. Yet up in the press box, guys like Burns and Will, guys who look like high-school equipment managers, are assembling 30-hour films and 200-page treatises on the historic importance of the infield-fly rule.
?Wait, I'm not done with that last one. All this intellectual slobbering over a game only slightly duller than watching Jell-O set reminds me of the time an especially precious baseball writer was sitting in a dugout with an old, randomly toothed coach, looking out on two stars as they stood talking side by side in the outfield. "You know," said the writer, "I feel cheated. I was never given an opportunity to do what those two young men are doing right now. It must be something to share in the camaraderie of the game, to discuss the plan of battle, to share the oneness of the team, to steel themselves for the daily taste of sweetness or bitterness."
The coach lobbed a wad of tobacco juice onto the dugout floor. "Nah," he said. "Probably talkin' about a broad."
May they all take high cheese.