It is a question that has troubled philosophers throughout the ages. Is Job a real person, or is he merely some sort of literary device — a real man with real adventures or just an allegory, meant to teach us a lesson?

This could be simultaneously the hardest and easiest clash I’ve ever had to write. I know Job personally, and have seen him many times (albeit not as many times or places as he would have indicated). So I’m convinced. But for the benefit of the rest of you, let’s consider the evidence before us.

First off we have a rather large sampling of writings to reference. While “Job Tate” could conceivably be some kind of pseudonym, the writing has a very distinct style and voice. These writings also mention many places, dates and individuals, seemingly too many details to be faked.

Second, we have photographic evidence. While many people on the Internet use phony photos to deceive others, this is usually done to upgrade their attractiveness. I don’t see how that could possibly be the case here.

Finally, we have eyewitness accounts. While you may not know Job, you may very well know and trust someone who does. Steve, Tom, Djere, Mike, Connie, and myself are just a sampling of those associated with Bweinh! who could testify to Job’s existence.

Of course, even if you remain unconvinced, I think you’ll have to concede that the question of Job’s actual existence is not nearly as important as — nor does it in any way take away from — the truths we can learn from his tale.

I sometimes wish that I could be happily ignorant, believing with all my heart that somewhere out there in the ether a benevolent Job Tate watches all that goes on at Bweinh.com and smiles, but I cannot. I am too rationally-minded to put my faith in children’s fairy tales any longer.

It is said that a thousand monkeys typing at a thousand typewriters would, after a thousand years, reproduce the works of Shakespeare. For the so-called ‘Best of Job’ features, I’d give twenty monkeys a half-hour. In short, the order that we perceive in “Job’s” articles is nothing more than random chance that we choose to find order in. Sorry, Tatists.

Of course, there’s also graphical evidence of Job Tate’s existence. If this type of evidence suffices to prove the existence of an entity, then Job exists, as do Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, Homer Simpson, and Erin E-surance. Our pantheon is growing by the day.

Finally, there are personal testimonials of what belief in Job has done for people all around the world. Sorry, guys, but anecdotal evidence won’t cause me to put my faith in a concept as ethereal and unreliable as Job Tate.

Belief in Job is a panacea that detracts from our ability to solve Bweinh’s problems through our own endeavors. I’m going to say it as clearly as I can: Job does not exist, he does not love you, and he is not returning someday on a white horse to double our readership and make me write articles again. If we desire these things, we must achieve them ourselves.

Baseball revolves around 18 players, guaranteed a minimum of 3 “at-bats”. These “at-bats” comprise all of the “action” in the game. Upon leaving the “on-deck circle,” the player initiates an “at-bat” by performing a series of rituals, which include spitting, scratching, adjusting his athletic supporter, clearing his nasal passages using either digital extraction or single nostril compression, adjusting the Velcro straps on his batting gloves, rubbing dirt on his gloves, inspecting his bat, and swinging the bat several times to assure it is operating properly (no one wants to get “caught looking” at a third strike because their bat jammed).

The manager of the team then uses a series of hand gestures and body contortions to relay his “score” for the rituals to the third base coach. Once at the plate, the player has only seconds to read the score as it is relayed by the third base coach. He can then either accept the score, or call time, step out of the “batter’s box,” and begin the rituals over again in the hope of getting a better score. These ratings can account for up to 65% of his “slugging percentage,” so they are extremely helpful during “arbitration hearings.”

Once the score is settled, the “catcher” then calls for the “pitch,” using a combination of hand signals and Morse code. Due to the noise of the snoring crowd, this information is sometimes garbled, requiring a conference where the “catcher” jogs to the “mound,” while the “pitcher” stares in confusion.

“What’s a fart ball?”
“What?”
“A fart ball? I’ve never heard of that!”
“It was FAST ball! FAST ball!”
“No, dude, that was an R. An S is dot DOT dot!”

Boring as this is to watch, it often leads to the most exciting play in baseball — “the brawl.” This is not to be confused with a hockey brawl, in which people actually fight — but sometimes while the catcher and pitcher are getting their signals right, the batter falls asleep, and the catcher calls for a “brushback pitch” to wake him. He usually awakens angry and confused, and lurches onto the field, yelling unintelligibly. This awakens the crowd, which in turn awakens the players on the bench, who stumble around, groggy and puzzled, shouting and gesturing in an attempt to find out whether the game is over and, if so, who won.

Once order is restored, the batter takes a mandatory 17 pitches, is declared either out or safe, and leaves. The broadcast crew, a team of sociopaths skilled in torture, replay all 17 pitches with a computer, to show the audience what they missed while they were fixing a sandwich.

All of us have been to a basketball game. They are fast-paced, whirling dervishes of action: high scoring, adrenaline-carried affairs that, wouldn’t you know, capture the attention of millions upon millions of ADHD-leaning Americans. Much of the time, when thinking of baseball, people look instead to a sport such as basketball, and they expect baseball to be roughly the same, except with a square field, a stick and a smaller spherical projectile.

But baseball is different. It is slower, more careful, but at the same time, it contains all the enthralling moments that make sport so very addicting. It takes concentration and precision to play, and (horror of horrors!) attention and patience to watch, but these just make it even more enjoyable.

I remember the first home run I ever saw. It was at a West Michigan Whitecaps game in their old stadium outside of Grand Rapids, and I think they were playing Ludington. No, I can’t recall the player or the inning or even the final score, but knowing that one person sent the ball flying that far had a magical quality about it that demanded respect for the players and the game.

And who can deny the tee-ball culture in which so many of our youths take part — often “encouraged” by a slightly overzealous parent — which keeps them active and out of trouble, teaches them to work and play as a team, shows them to listen to worthy authority, and coaches them to improvise. All of these are parts of baseball. Though calling it “the American pastime” may be a cliché, to some degree it is quite true.

So say the children who played tee-ball in their community leagues, their city parks, or their sandlots eventually grow up and become adult baseball fans. They know the calls and the punishments, and they can shout (righteously angered) at an ump who is clearly calling the game in favor of the other team (crooked cheaters!). They can tell when a pitcher is tiring or a shortstop is oblivious or a runner without fail is going to steal third base. In short: the fans love the game. They aren’t fair-weather; they aren’t in it for the adrenaline: they are in it for the team.

Baseball is skill. Baseball is style. Baseball is patience. And as long as there are people who eat Cracker Jack, buy nosebleed seats, and take their kids to buy their first real baseball glove, when you flip through the radio channels on hot summer evenings, you will hear:

“Steeeeeeeee — rike three! And he’s outta there!“

I have six paragraphs to convince you that speeding is bad. These pesky little vices are difficult to argue. After all, we’re all guilty of them, and we can always find justification for an occasional offense. Gotta get to work, or the doctor’s, or school. But set that aside. I’d like to address the deliberate persistent Christian scofflaw.

I don’t think anyone would argue that as Christians, we are called to obey the law, be good examples to our weaker brethren (not stumbling blocks), and not waste the liberty we’ve been given on fruitless pursuits. So I’ll move onto my next point — posted limits are set by the government for reasons of safety and gas consumption. The latest PR campaigns say that for every 5 miles you drive over 55 mph, you pay 10 cents more for that gas in your tank. Why drive all over to save 7 cents a gallon only to waste it by going over the speed limit? To save a few minutes? Just leave earlier!

I want to spend the rest of my space on safety, because I believe the only reason Christians deliberately and consistently speed is that they’re ignorant and/or purposefully blind to the facts. Maybe they just need a little information. When speed increases from 40 mph to 60 mph, the energy released in a crash more than doubles (IIHS, 2003). The economic cost of crashes that involved excessive speed were $40.4 billion, representing 18% of total crash costs, and an average cost of $144 for every person in the United States. In states where speed limits were raised to 65 mph in 1987, the higher limits are causing 15-20% more deaths on rural interstates each year. In states that raised rural speed limits, more than 400 lives are lost each year because of higher limits (IIHS, 2003).

In 2002, 39% of male teenage drivers in fatal crashes were speeding at the time of the crash. In 2002, 38% of all motorcyclists involved in fatal crashes were speeding. The percentage of speeding involvement in fatal crashes was approximately twice as high for motorcyclists as for drivers of passenger cars or light trucks.

When Texas increased its speed limit from 55 mph to 70 mph, the average speed on a sampling of its urban freeways and interstate highways increased substantially. Prior to the increase, 15% of cars on these roads exceeded 70 mph and 4% went over 75 mph. After the increase, 50% were exceeding 70 mph, and 17% were traveling faster than 75 mph.

When you speed as a Christian, you compromise your testimony — strike one. When you speed, you waste money, time and resources — strike two. And when you consistently break the law, you put yourself and others in very real danger — strike three. And you’re not just out, you could be dead — or worse, you could have killed the love of your life, or someone else’s. Try living with that.

I don’t enjoy this. I don’t want to defend breaking the law, even one as soft and pliable as the speed limit. I’m writing this primarily out of duty, but I must admit — I do speed. Not by a lot, but I do. I’m guilty. And you are too.

And sometimes it’s okay.

First, let’s talk city. I drive about 5 mph over the speed limit on city streets, sometimes lower if no one is around, but often a bit higher when there’s traffic. And that’s the real reason I speed — the flow of traffic demands it. It’s one thing to stubbornly stick to the letter (or number) of the law when you’re Sunday drivin’ down a deserted lane, but driving 30 mph on a busy boulevard will get you tailgated and cursed. Frankly, 38’s safer.

And if it’s true in town, it’s even truer on the highway. I drove 700 miles this past weekend — no lie — and 650 of those were on the interstate, where I travel somewhere between 72 and 75 mph. The most dangerous driver I saw was going about 95 mph (again no lie) and weaving in and out of traffic like a maniac. But the second-most dangerous driver I saw was driving 60 and chilling in the right lane of the Thruway. Traffic had backed up behind him for a quarter-mile, leading to dangerous lane changes and sudden surprises for those who came over a hill and encountered the mess. Like it or not, it is not safe to drive the speed limit on an interstate highway. And if you prefer to go 68, or 70, then — like the man told the woman — we’ve already established what you are; now we’re just haggling over the amount.

The statistics on safety, quoted by my opponent, are compelling. Some are even accurate. For instance, it is more dangerous to crash at a higher speed. The data, however, suggest that states that have raised their rural interstate speed limits are actually some of the safest places to drive. Deaths in those states have declined drastically over the past ten years, as they have everywhere. You were 37% less likely to be injured in a car crash in 2005 than you were in 1995, when the national 55 mph limit was repealed. The IIHS is a group of insurance companies, whose motives for publishing such a study may not be entirely pure. They raise your rates for speeding tickets, remember? Of course they like low limits.

But yes, excessive speed is dangerous. I can’t stand any reckless driving, especially when it endangers lives. Neither can the police. So they pull people over who drive 15 mph over the limit, or pay more attention to their phone than the road, or get behind the wheel when chemically impaired. The point of the law is to deter unsafe driving, and the speed limit is designed to accomplish that — with leeway built into the system. Officers can ticket a reckless 70 mph driver without having to resort to some subjective measurement of danger — but they can also let the safe driver continue at the same speed.

So drive safely, at a reasonable speed, avoiding distractions. There’s no deadline — and no text message — worth your life.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOAL!

Hey there, sports fans! Whether you’re the spoiled spawn of a disinterested suburban trophy wife or more useful to your parents tending the cassava fields than at school, everybody loves soccer! Scratch that: everybody loves fútbol!

Here in America, it used to be that we would raise a collective yawn every four years for soccer’s World Cup, knowing full well that nations we could literally wipe off the face of the planet would make our best and brightest look like a high school junior varsity squad.

But things are changing! Soccer in America is the most popular organized children’s sport, and being a soccer mom is hip! Everybody wants to be a soccer mom… even Mike!

With the addition of international footballers like David Beckham and Juan Pablo Angel, new clubs like FC Toronto, and the “Superliga” tournament pitting the best of the MLS against the best of the Mexican fútbol leagues, soccer’s on the rise.

And why shouldn’t it?

Americans are fat and lazy. The cure? Soccer! A soccer field looks familiar to Americans — a wider and longer NFL field, but players on the pitch run for almost 90 straight minutes, not stopping after every play to release a hip hop album.

Americans lust for blood. The cure? Soccer! Hooligans riot for weeks when their teams lose a match to a rival! Players have been shot to death for scoring own goals! And when a player commits a penalty, the ref pulls out a card — he doesn’t toss a froofy kerchief to the four winds of heaven — and books the offending player. There are no coaches challenging the call on the field, no umpires spitting tobacco, and best of all, no John “Turducken” Madden.

Americans want to be entertained. The cure? Soccer! Hands down, the single most aesthetically appealing points in any sport — bar none — are soccer goals. How many times can you see some 11-foot-tall college dropout reach up and place a ball in a basket? How long will you watch 14 400-pound college “graduates” slam into each other so 1 tiny man can dive over the blubbery mess into the end zone? Are you bored with jacked-up, ‘roid-ragers hitting little white balls over a fence with a stick? Soccer goals are quick and amazing at the pro level, the propulsion of a ball 30 or 40 yards with pinpoint precision. The spin, the physics, the drama, the beauty of a well-struck goal can cause entire nations to bless or curse.

Not that Americans would know anything about that. What’s that? NASCAR’s on? YEE HA!

I know that saying this will make me sound like a jingoistic pig, but would someone please explain what is so beautiful about the beautiful game?

Three things that are not so beautiful:

1. Red cards. In my mind, if a team has to play a man down for the entire remainder of the game, there ought to be dismemberment of some sort involved. But because some guy, in the heat of the moment, tackles another in a particularly egregious fashion, all of the sudden he’s out of the game and his team is now forced essentially to hope for a tie? Really?

When Paul Lo Duca whined and moaned through the Mets’ epic collapse, getting ejected from games, were the Mets prevented from using a catcher? No? Why? Because it’s ridiculous, that’s why. Oh, and by the way, that red card–all a judgment call. Not that the refs having all that power has ever led to corrupt officials.

2. Offsides. Okay, I’m snoozing my way through a game–oh, pardon me, a match — when finally — finally! — someone manages to break through all alone to face the goalie.

For the first time, I raise my eyelids slightly, only to have the ref blow the whistle and inform everybody in attendance that the previous moment of heart-pounding excitement was an infraction of the rules. Oh good. Now I can go back to my sleeping, and the crowd can go back to their drinking, unconcerned that any substantive action may take place on the field–er, pitch–to distract us from those worthy pursuits.

3. Soccer parents. Something must be done about these people. I’m at a JV soccer match today at the local high school watching a girl from our youth group. A girl goes down on a somewhat hard tackle. The ref lets it slide and continues play.

Behind me, a man, entitlement dripping from his lips, says, “Hey ref–what’re you looking at?” and proceeds to carry on an argument with the ref. In a crowd of 50 people max, this man, unencumbered by any sense of shame, barks at the ref at a girls’ JV game.

Don’t tell me this happens to this extent in other sports. Soccer’s big here in the ‘burbs, where people have it all, but are in constant fear of losing it all. The incredibly dull nature of the game gives these people time to ponder the emptiness at the core of their lives and makes them even more agitated about it. Suddenly, a ref’s judgment call turns into a personal attack on my precious little Fiona! Hell hath no fury like a tight-lipped nervous suburbanite scorned.

A vote for soccer merely perpetuates this insanity. Don’t do it!

Those of you who know me as being perhaps on the theologically liberal end of the spectrum of Bweinh!tributors may be surprised to find out that I am essentially politically conservative.

This is something that has developed in recent years, probably as I have grown older and responsible for running a household with my wife Jill. During our first year of marriage especially, we were not making much money. “How are we going to pay for it?” became a consistent refrain — when thinking of buying a car, new furniture or even a pizza for dinner.

So while I hear and am genuinely moved by pleas for universal health care or raising the minimum wage, the question still pops up: “How are we going to pay for it?” Eventually, the answer comes to me: “You are . . . you and the rest of the tax base.” And while I ought to be ready and generous to give to worthy causes, I would just as soon not take the US government’s word for it in deciding what a worthy cause is.

Just on the off chance that the US government decided something immoral was a worthy cause (perish the thought!), I would rather not have the mechanism already in place to force me to pay for it. We need the government to protect citizens from trampling each others’ rights; we don’t need a government determining right and wrong for individuals when that behavior has no impact on the lives of others.

It is the same sort of logic that informs my position that marijuana should be legalized. I’ve never used marijuana; and not like Bill Clinton never used marijuana either. I’ve never used it, period. And I can’t imagine why someone would. But you know what? The threat posed to society at large by marijuana usage is minimal at most. It poses no undue risk to the general populace; it does not rob anyone else of their rights. Marijuana does not threaten to kill or injure anyone besides the user. And if people want to do things harmful to themselves, tobacco is already legal and shows no signs of becoming illegal.

As far as I can see, the main reason for keeping marijuana illegal is that our government wants to send a message that it is abhorrent and dangerous behavior. I don’t condone marijuana usage. But neither do I want our government exploiting its power to determine what is abhorrent and dangerous. Remember, orthodox Christianity isn’t always pretty in the eyes of our government either, but it’s protected belief and behavior . . . for now.

I guess I’m counted among the social conservatives of the world. Jonah Goldberg once described social conservatism (to me and my peers at SLU) as erring on the side of keeping things the same when change is proposed. He illustrated his point vividly — during the 1960’s, a significant number of hippie communes began suffering from terrible diseases no American doctor had ever seen. To make a long story short, it turns out the age-old traditions of bathing and personal hygiene were not just “the man’s” hang-ups after all.

People are good judges of what is beneficial for them often enough that most decisions are safe in their hands; personal choice is one of the greatest tenets underlying philosophical liberalism and democracy. However, these also generally assume people are self-interested, and what’s good for me is not always good for you. Sometimes I can even be fooled into making a decision that’s good for me in the short run, but hurts in the long run. It’s a real shame that we don’t have a natural experiment to show what happens if otherwise responsible adults spend too much on expensive, addictive habits and not enough on their health, family, education, etc.

But of course, we do. We could examine the effects of cigarettes, which cause cancer and eat up resources that could be used more productively. However, aside from addictiveness, tobacco does not have many of marijuana’s characteristics (no mind- altering experience, man!), so it’s probably better to compare marijuana to alcohol, a much more sobering comparison (pardon the pun). Both drugs produce an altered state of mind and can transform you into someone that you are not. Legalizing marijuana doesn’t just put it into the hands of homesick Europeans and responsible folks like you and me. It could also put psychoactive drugs into the hands of a welfare recipient who should be out looking for work or caring for his/her children, or a person getting behind the wheel of a car. Granted, there are still DUI/DWI laws, but think about what an unbridled success those have been and you’ll understand my desire to keep pot illegal. Such regulations barely deter anyway; few believe the risk of getting caught is significant.

Finally, though I may be guilty of employing the slippery slope fallacy, it’s not a particularly good argument for legalizing marijuana. Why make anything illegal at all if the government cannot make moral judgments? Even protecting me from my neighbor implies my life is worth more than what’s spent on protection. Like most arguments, the argument about legalizing marijuana comes down to a matter of degree — to what degree will we let the government determine what Americans shouldn’t put into their bodies? I have no disdain for people who draw the line elsewhere, nor do they lack in morals, but I sincerely believe some people are not responsible enough to limit their detrimental behavior, so marijuana should remain illegal.

Isn’t eating healthy awesome?

Yeah, I know it is.

Sometimes, you’ll go to the dining center or the kitchen or whatever and be like, “I want something delicious, but not too terrible for me.” Then you remember that big brick of soy that you have in the back of the refrigerator. Score! Just throw some ketchup (or mustard, for the rest of you) on that thing, stick it in the microwave, and in a minute or so you have the equivalent of warm meat loaf!

(Culinary Tip: It’s easier to get the stuff down if you imagine that you’re actually eating a piece of an animal. One that was slaughtered in a humane manner. Maybe dead of old age.)

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Isn’t eating healthy more expensive? Well, sure it is, but surely you’ll make up for that by reducing your trips to the doctor! Genetics, environmental factors, medical history and plain ol’ luck won’t have anything on you, once you’re armed with some sprouts — or even just an apple. Rock on!

All I know is, on my deathbed, when I’m thinking about all the fattening meals I could have eaten in my lifetime, I’ll take solace in my rapidly dwindling health and the set of rock-hard six-pack abs that I was THIS CLOSE to developing, until I realized I’d need to put more complete proteins in my diet.

That and actually do abdominal exercises.

Yeah, on that day the icy nothingness of the great beyond won’t have anything on me. Until then, I’ll just keep on ignoring the eye rolls I get from people who haven’t seen the light, and continue annoying waitresses with my inane and often unfulfillable requests. Live long, live hard, and pass those greens!

You know what’s really delicious? Besides The Golden Girls, Tom.

Fatty food, that’s what!

Let those hippie vegetarian longhair freaks eat their “tofu” and “pine nuts” and “lettuce”! True gastronomic connoisseurs like you and me, gentle reader, head straight for the top of the food pyramid — meats, cheeses, fats and oils! What are proteins and carbohydrates but a simple delivery system for the grease and sugar our bodies were designed to run on?

You know how some children in South America carry bags of glue around to huff? I do that too — except with lard.

A lot of people say, “Hey, man, put down the creme brulee! The healthier you eat, the longer you live!” That’s when I remind them that life ain’t worth livin’ without bacon, or pork rinds, or chocolate-covered bacon. Who wants to spend eighty years of torture choking down “fiber” when they can get in and out in half the time, with thrice the caloric goodness! Prolong the agony? Or go out with passion, like a shooting star, double-chin dappled with twin trails of mayo and meat sauce?

I can tell. You’re a star.

And I am too! I save my bacon grease to pour on my Extra Butter popcorn. I use my Magic Bullet to make a tasty Krispy Kreme cappuccino. I even carry four or five Triple Stackers in my briefcase — just in case Burger King ever runs out.

So you can listen to my opponent and eat bizarrely unnatural green things, things people find in the ground — or you can live it up with me, while I wait for my second cheese fry refill at Ruby Tuesday’s.

Me — and Estelle Getty.

I have to extol the virtues of not using profanity. I bet you think I’ll pull out Scripture like Col. 3:8 (“…put off anger, wrath, malice, blasphemy, and filthy language”). I bet you already voted for Chloe’s “swearing isn’t appropriate, but there are rare situations, extreme duress, etc.,” because no one can see you vote anyway… But I have a slightly different spin on this. I didn’t write it for everybody (actually, I wrote it for Job) — I wrote it for us, Christians. Let me tell you a story.

It’s Autumn 1999, and I’m a brand-new substitute teacher called in for the day, trying to wade through lesson plans, homework, assignments and unreadable notes from the ‘real’ teacher — not to mention a bad case of senioritis in one class. The day and period were nearly over and one group of guys were up front talking crude, making the rest of us uncomfortable, so I shut them down. Not to be dissuaded, they continued to discuss their favorite subjects in a disgusting way. Since I’d been interacting with them, I decided to weigh in on the conversation instead of verbally smacking them with my big ol’ Mrs. Maxon Ruler.

Boy: “I told him, you don’t have the b*lls!” (They weren’t talkin’ sports.)

Me: “Cheeeez (imagine the Dog Whisperer noise), stop! That’s not the word you need. What are you trying to say? He’s not BRAVE enough, COURAGEOUS enough, or STRONG enough, maybe? So say what you mean! You have a great brain, use it!” They acted like they’d just been taught something they’d never heard before.

Our language is a beautiful tool. What can beat the feeling of finding the perfect word when we’re trying to describe something? It’s extraordinary, really. The right tool can make all the difference — I was just thinking about that this morning while I was stirring creamer into my coffee with a pencil.

We need the right tools and we need to follow Paul’s instructions and put off the early signals of frustration (anger) that lead to other thoughts (wrath). If we don’t, soon we’ll be wondering where that word popped out from. We are called to be different from this world, and I submit WE ARE DIFFERENT. Look around, go check out those bios. Have you ever seen a more different group of people? When we follow Christ’s directives, that difference draws others, even foul-mouthed teenaged boys, and that makes a difference in the Kingdom.

Profanity in everyday conversations is not appropriate. However, there are times when swearing is necessary. For instance, when writing about difficult subjects, choosing against using profanity will occasionally cause the reader to distrust the author, especially when the reader is not the typical audience.

When writing about poverty, drugs, family abuse and incest, etc., I can’t write, “Sometimes you feel like no one’s there for you,” because it goes much deeper than that for the audience. They would tune me out unless I told it like it was: “You’ve decided no one gives a shit, so you have to take care of yourself.”

Similarly, when talking to someone from those types of situations, I cannot use common descriptions of feeling: “I know losing your baby brother in that drive-by made you upset and angry.” Rather, if I intend to get through to him and show him I understand him, I have to speak his language.

One pastor in LA discovered this while working in a deeply impoverished and drug-infested area. He abandoned Christianese, and now his kids connect with him, and no longer think of him as that rich, white Christian guy who thinks he can fix everything. To them, that kind of person is completely ineffective and doesn’t understand or offer the salvation they need.

In one-on-one conversations, it may also be necessary to speak the other person’s language. I have a dear friend who has gone through horrible things in her life, but if I were to say that to her, she would shut me out. To her, it’s not “horrible things,” but “shit.” Instead of being “angry,” she is “pissed off.” People aren’t jerks…you get the idea.

She doesn’t want an educated, well-spoken Christian to attempt to guide her through a healing path. That person doesn’t understand what she’s gone through, can’t connect with her, and surely will judge her. She wants a real person who’s been there and who can give her some guidance.

Granted, the situations in which profanity is necessary are very rare, but they do exist. Missing them could mean driving away someone you could potentially help, or worse, alienating someone from hearing the good news.

We all know that television is a “vast wasteland”; I don’t think anyone would argue against the idea that television producers could use a little more moderation in the schlock they put on the air. Americans as a whole also probably spend far too much time watching television. However, we’re not talking here about trimming a few shows (including MTV in near-entirety), or a few hours watching the tube. We’re talking about whether television as a medium is good or bad. I believe that, as a whole, television has been used for good and has the potential to continue to be used in this manner.

First of all, for pure entertainment, television simply cannot be beat: it’s the cheapest close approximation of life available that is still relaxing to take in. As big a fan as I am of A Prairie Home Companion and the early days of Amos ‘n’ Andy, lack of visuals is a severe setback to their value as relaxing escapes from life. Sure, I can listen to them while driving or cleaning the house, but sometimes I don’t actually want to be doing anything else. Books are nice (easily my second favorite method for relaxing), but sometimes you don’t even want to read. Video games require active input on the part of the viewer and are not optimal choices for everyone’s relaxation. Television is the one medium with enough choices and variety to satisfy all comers.

More importantly, though, is television’s ability to inform us. Where would much of Bweinh!’s readership be without the teachings of Sesame Street? As we grew older, many of us made the switch from PBS to the Discovery Channel, but the medium bringing us information didn’t change. Not only that, but television news continues to be one of the most popular ways to get current, up-to-date information. On the morning of 9/11, where did people turn for the breaking story? Newspapers? CNN.com? No, they turned to television, and TV news delivered as well as could be expected on such a confusing day.

Finally, the following is a brief list of television programs and/or channels that I know are frequent favorites of certain Bweinh! users. No one person probably likes every one of them, but that just serves to illustrate my point about the variety of television serving us all: The Simpsons; The Office; Project Runway/America’s Next Top Model/Top Chef; MythBusters/Dirty Jobs/the Discovery Channel, and the Sci-Fi Channel. Look me in the eye, all of you, and tell me television doesn’t have redeeming qualities.

Television certainly has its drawbacks, but most useful things do. Television should properly be viewed as a tool that can be used for evil or good. As viewers, our viewing habits are our choice, and it would be wrong to blame television for creating some evil along with good.

By way of disclaimer, I am not completely against television. I have spent a great deal of delightfully entertaining time enjoying thought-provoking entertainment with friends and family. In myriad positive ways I have been touched, amused, morally outraged, and pleased by the oases of quality in the bleak landscape of television. However, taken as a whole, television has harmed our culture far more than it has ever helped.

Television encourages complacency. Comparatively speaking, it’s a lot easier to sit on your couch as entertainment is pumped into your home, rather than going out and seeking or making that entertainment on your own. Why read a book when you can have people more attractive than those around you act out a miniature play for your enjoyment? Why do something new when you can share in the experience of literally dozens of other people watching the same program you enjoy?

Even the rare occasions when television moves people to action, there is still a complacent stink about their decisions. The outrage in vogue these days, complaining of the situation taking place in Jena, Louisiana, is being taken up not by people who have thoughtfully examined a number of articles and points of view. Rather, a sorority sister will see a single segment on network news (presented in a manner to most provoke and incite the rabble that constitutes the average viewership), and join with other socially-minded nitwits to protest something they don’t necessarily understand.

Television decreases the attention span. A friend of mine recently suggested I read an article, because it was excellently written. Her paraphrased quote: “You should totally read this! I almost didn’t because it was so long, but I’m glad I did because it was so great!” The article filled a screen and one half in my tiny monitor, and if it had hundreds of words, there were no more than five. Anything not presented in a manic, quick-paced style runs the risk of being completely ignored by your typical person, and television’s ratings-at-all-cost mindset has a great deal to do with that.

In an era of failing schools, sinking test scores, and the prospect of a world stage upon which America plays a background role a very real possibility, I cannot help but consider television’s part in the slide. The few points of light amid the ebony backdrop of reality television, celebrity gossip, and lowest-common-denominator sitcoms cannot provide complete redemption. Television, I name myself your enemy.

But I’m still going to watch Psych.

Meet the Gutierrez family. After suffering catastrophic health issues in Mexico, they left their native land to emigrate to the United States. Settling (illegally) in an affluent Hispanic community in the lush suburbs of Macon, GA, they received free health care, food stamps and supplemental income from various welfare agencies, allowing them to heal from their several maladies and settle into an ideal American existence.

They moved to the suburb, initially, because of the many jobs open to undocumented aliens at area chicken processing plants. But they stayed because they became hooked on fresh chicken and the outdoor BBQ experience — and they don’t use charcoal. See, back in Mexico they suffered a series of disturbing ailments thought to be byproducts of American manufacturing practices, but in reality were caused by the manufacture of charcoal.

As with most countries in South and Central America, there is a burgeoning illegal charcoal industry in Mexico, destroying the environment ways impossible to calculate. I know, because I tried with my calculator and I could not find a way to input words like “greenhouse gases” and “smog.” Charcoal is made by cutting down trees and burning the wood in a furnace (without oxygen), creating coals for consumption by fat, lazy, rich Americans. The immediate effect of the process is the release of carbon monoxide, a major contributor to both global warming and the long, drawn-out twilight of William Shatner’s acting career (speaking of rich, fat Americans). In addition, removing the trees strips hillsides of vegetation, leaving the land prone to erosion, which kills by starvation, and flooding, which kills — well… pretty much by flooding. Oh, and also mudslides.

I stand with the Gutierrez family in my resolve to use only gas when I grill my loco pollo from nearby chicken plants. If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me. Besides, I like to make my own sauce from mustard, soy sauce and Italian dressing, and soy sauce tastes funky when it’s grilled over charcoal.

Not that I have ever personally used charcoal.

There are few things finer in all the world than a cookout on a warm summer day — the smell, the camaraderie around the grill, the way everything just tastes better when you eat outside. You feel alive. The only way to put a damper on such a tasty scene would be to cheat.

I’m talking to you, gas grill guy.

First off, it’s undeniable that food cooked over a real, charcoal fire tastes better. Since quality of taste is the most important factor when discussing food preparation — particularly if you’re going to go to all the trouble of a cookout to begin with — the debate really begins and ends there. But I will continue, because there’s more to love about charcoal.

For one thing, the grills are less expensive. This leaves more money available for quality cuts of meat. Also, studies have shown that when it comes to expensive cooking gadgets, there is an inverse correlation between how much money people spend and how much they actually cook for themselves. In other words, gas is for posers.

Throw in the fact that charcoal offers an infinitely lower chance of an explosion, and much greater ease and safety of storage and purchase. When I go to Lowe’s (let’s build something — together), I don’t need someone to unlock an outdoor cage to get me a bag of charcoal.

Proponents of gas will say that charcoal takes too long to heat up, and that gas offers more even control of heat. Well, you know what? My microwave heats up quickly and provides even heat. Maybe I’ll just go nuke some hot dogs and call it a day. Give me a break!

The whole point of cooking out is to master that open flame, to connect with nature. For a genuine cookout experience, charcoal just can’t be beat.

No one wants to see people suffering in sickness without access to health care. I understand the terrible dilemmas faced by the uninsured poor in America, and I know that there really are people who cannot afford to go to the doctor. But this problem requires the right solution.

Before we think about changing things, let’s examine the current system, which does a lot more than some believe. Medicaid and Medicare do a lot to cover the expenses of the poor and elderly. In New York, Child Health Plus and Family Health Plus provide free or low-cost health care to ALL residents of the state who meet certain income requirements. A two-parent family with two children can make as much as $51,636 per year and still qualify for Child Health Plus, with only a $30 premium each month. Unfortunately, many eligible people don’t apply for these programs, perhaps because they don’t know about them. Other low-price medical insurance programs are available through various means (although many people — like me, for the last three years — make a conscious choice to go without), and free clinics exist in almost every city.

I might be convinced to support some sort of expansion of these programs, especially to cover the constantly mentioned (but rather rare) single adult stuck in a dead-end, low-wage job. But what I will not support is so-called “free” universal health care.

First, the government will handle health care inefficiently. There isn’t a single thing — not even national defense — that the government has proven able to handle without an increase in cost and a decrease in service. You’re sure you want to put them in charge of your newly diagnosed prostate cancer? For more effective results, we should be trying to privatize things, not nationalize them.

Second, such a policy won’t be free at all — its cost will simply be passed along in the form of much higher taxes. People like me, who get sick twice a year and are blessed with excellent health, will be required to enter this system even if we largely don’t need it, and will pay into the system vastly more than we get out of it. It’s FICA all over again, except on an even larger scale. Just what we all want: the government taking more money out of our paychecks.

Third, the repercussions of free universal health care would be disastrous to our system. Give something away and people value it less and use it more. Elective surgeries will become nearly impossible to get, involving long waits, obscene costs, or perhaps both — just like they already are overseas, regardless of Michael Moore’s lies. And if you think antibiotic resistance is bad now, just wait until everyone with a pulse gets a bottle of amoxicillin every time their nose runs.

Nationalizing health care would give everyone the same standard of care — a painfully low one. Let’s fix the current system to include the people who legitimately cannot afford the care they need, rather than overhauling something that’s really not that bad, destroying it in the process.

My reason for supporting universal health care is simple — people don’t just suffer without insurance coverage as Steve concedes, but they can die without proper treatment, and it’s being priced out of their range. Statistics say that employers and workers will pay an average of $12,106 for health insurance this year, and overall, the cost of employer-provided insurance has risen 78% since 2001, exceeding the 17% jump in inflation.

Yes, health care is available for the poor and lower middle class, but how many of the poor can actually get it? The sad truth is that most poor people are not able to take advantage of these programs. I know because it happened to my family. My father couldn’t hold a job, and I went to six different second grades in two states one year. Record keeping would have been a joke for us, but it’s very important in these programs. You must follow rigid recertification rules twice a year or you get kicked off. If your materials are misplaced by bureaucrats (mine were), you get kicked off. If you don’t have the skills to battle the bureaucracy, you’ll lose your coverage. All this red tape is a supreme waste of health care dollars. It has nothing to do with keeping people well.

But the middle class is probably having the hardest time. They could handle the paperwork and red tape; unfortunately, they just don’t qualify. And every single year their costs keep going up. What if they have a crisis in the meantime while they’re uninsured or under insured? They might lose their homes. I personally will spend 75% of my paycheck (nearly $10,000) paying for health care premiums this year, and that doesn’t include co-pays or prescriptions. My employer doesn’t provide any coverage help.

The difference between coverage and no coverage could be checking out that melanoma or going to the dentist before a tooth becomes abscessed. Steve suffered through only he knows how much pain this past spring and summer, waiting for dental coverage. Maybe he just didn’t want to spend the money, but many others just don’t have it to spend.

I personally suffered from a systemic infection last summer — a simple case of food poisoning spread to a bladder infection. I had health insurance, although I’m notorious for not going to the doctor; eventually I got checked because I was in a lot of pain. I was issued a bottle of pills and sent home. A couple hours later I hit the Urgent Care where I was called a wimp, and told to let the pills work and tough it out. A couple hours after that, I was in the ER and admitted to the ICU.

If I hadn’t had insurance I don’t think I would have tried the last step; I would have been worried about how I would pay the first two bills and trying to believe that the first two doctors knew what they were talking about. But I would have been wrong and I would have died. All that would have been left for my family would be filing the wrongful death suit…maybe that would have covered their insurance premiums for another few years. Some ironic consolation, eh?

I know the federal government doesn’t have a good track record in this area, but New York does. Their programs became a pilot for the nation because they worked so well. We just need to stop wasting money on red tape and develop a health care system that’s fair, affordable and available to all, not just those who can afford to buy a kidney whenever they want one.

Public broadcasting is part of an evil plot to subvert our country’s youth by filling their minds with liberal politics, designed to turn them all into leftist car-burning radicals.

That being said though, it isn’t really the main reason I am so opposed to public broadcasting. The main reason is that we tossed all these topics into a hat a while back and I drew this side of the argument.

However, the best reason for opposing PBS or NPR (the nefarious radio arm of the cabal) is the obvious safety concern, highlighted in a study fabricated by the University of Wisconsin during the late 1990’s. Test subjects drove across the country while listening to the soothing sounds of either R&B music or hard rock, in an effort to gauge the effect of the two formats on driver alertness. As you probably have guessed, NPR was used as the placebo. After 33 deaths from NPR listeners falling asleep at the wheel, the study was cancelled. The university is still in litigation over the psychological damage suffered by the test subjects who were not fortunate enough to perish.

The second reason to hate public broadcasting is their TV presence. The problem is actually twofold. One is their programming. Who hasn’t grown tired of watching frumpy people with British accents make their way through intricate plots based on books written 200 years ago? “The sun never sets on the British Empire,” they used to be fond of saying. I guess all that daylight adversely affected the mental composition of the British author, and somehow the British managed to win a rigged bid process, requiring us to watch their endless prattle for the next 3 centuries.

The second, more dangerous, aspect of their TV presence is the dreaded pledge drive. During the pledge drive, whatever “good” movies they have in their back room are dusted off and advertised heavily. Casual TV patrons are drawn in by this ploy, so after they have enjoyed the first half of the classic movie they have been dying to watch for years, the movie is brought to a screeching halt, so a pleasant little fellow in an easy chair can lay on the guilt trip.

“Have you been enjoying this wonderful trip down memory lane? Did you know that the only way we can stay on the air is thanks to contributors like you? Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah — and if you ever want to see the end of this movie, you freakin’ freeloader, get off your lazy butt, open that wallet, and PAY US!!!”

This, by itself, has led to many nervous breakdowns among the viewing public.

Commercial broadcasting is part of an evil plot to subvert our country’s youth by filling their minds with consumerist politics, designed to turn them all into mindless SUV-buying mouth-breathers.

That being said though, it isn’t really the main reason I am so in favor of public broadcasting. The main reason is that we tossed all these topics into a hat a while back and I drew this side of the argument.

Public television has long been a part of my life. Although I’m an outspoken critic of most television, very little of the programming I’ve come across on WPBS (my local affiliate) offended my admittedly delicate sensibilities. Big Bird and the rest of his crew on Sesame Street taught me colors, letters, numbers, and how to take a punch. Mr. Rogers taught me how crayons are made, and the all-encompassing importance of coordinating sweater and sneakers. Even up through college, my roommates would return from their classes on days my schedule lightened to find me transfixed, my entire being a beam of concentration leveled intensely at Simply Ming.

Whether I was appearing on Whiz Quiz with local celebrity Glen Gough, or relentlessly mocking Rod and Reel, public television was always there for me. Would lack of exposure to the brilliance that is Rowan Atkinson in Mr. Bean have made me less of a person? Would having to put up solely with the depravity, inanity, and banality that is a commercial television station have harmed me irrevocably? At this point it’s impossible to tell, but I’d err on the side of caution and give PBS its due in the amalgamation that is Tom.

However, public radio is the medium of the people that lies closest to my cold little heart. Our local National Public Radio affiliate has kept alive the tradition of real radio programming that laid the foundation for all of our media sources today. The landscape of commercial radio today is a barren wasteland of Top-40 nonsense, jaded partisan babblings, and the warbly, self-pitying strains of country stations just aching to get that truck back. NPR fires back with news featuring in-depth reporting, quiz-shows that simply assume their audience is smarter than a fifth-grader, and entertainment programs in which people read (gasp) actual short stories. Oh, the humanity!

Finally, to defend the lowly pledge drive. Without the sale of commercials, public broadcasting is able to keep itself pure, an ivory tower of news, entertainment and information unsullied by the dirtying effects of the almighty dollar. If the price I have to pay for my cooking shows is watching a pledge drive once a quarter, is that too much? I humbly submit that it is not.

I married into a ketchup family 30 years ago, and though I’ve raised six ketchup-loving children, some of them like mustard as well. So as the leader of a successful multi-condiment family, I think I’m well-qualified to take up this challenge.

I could easily live without ketchup, but I have always loved mustard — its bite and sassiness, its lack of sweetness, and, quite frankly, its low, low price. When you buy ketchup it’ll set you back at least 2 bucks, but not so my little yellow-bottled bargain. You may even get change from your “Where’s George” bill if there’s a sale on.

More importantly, it has NO calories. That’s right. None. Squeeze to your heart’s content, folks. If you can take the zing, it will deliver it fat and calorie-free. Mustard stains come out easier than ketchup too. Trust me. Plus, mustard has a happy color — the same as the little smiley face. As a matter of fact, the first smiley face may have been made out of mustard! Ketchup, however, is the color of death, and has been used to simulate BLOOD in low budget B-movies. Another plus of mustard is that it won’t kill you if you leave it out in the sun all day at a picnic. Ketchup goes rancid and mayo can fill an emergency room, but it’s just plain hard to kill mustard. I’ve seen bottles last a whole year.

This leads me to its crowning point — versatility. Ketchup comes in one form, sickly sweet red (except those weird colors that packed the Dollar Store shelves a few years ago — what was that, Heinz?). Mustard, on the other hand, can be bold, tart, spicy or sweet, to suit whatever strikes your fancy, and it comes in yellow, brown, spicy, spicy brown, horseradish, German, Dijon, and honey (which even my ketchup-loving husband loves!). It works on and in hot dogs, chicken, sausages, burgers, egg salad, grilled cheese, salad dressing, wings, deviled eggs, and especially chili (it’s the secret ingredient in mine!) — to name just a few.

In conclusion, I’ll point out that mustard (seed) is the only condiment mentioned in the Bible, while ketchup has barely recovered from its 1980s scandal, when President Reagan declared it to be a “vegetable.” Ketchup is made from tomatoes, which in their overripe state are mainly used to attack bad entertainment: those B movies, NASCAR, or anything with Lindsay Lohan or Paris Hilton in it.

Face it, rotten tomatoes just cannot compete with mountain-moving taste, even when those tomatoes are aimed at filthy rich drama queen divas. Now please vote for me and admit that as good as ketchup is, it’s just too one-dimensional. It cannot cut the mustard.

Mustard? Please. Ketchup is king of the condiments. Always has been, always will be. Well, except for during biblical times. We’ve come a long way.

First, we’ll deal with the mustard issue. My main problem with most of mustard’s “strong suits” is that I just don’t like mustard’s flavor, to the point where not using any condiments at all would make even more sense than preferring mustard.

If I wanted to save money, I wouldn’t buy ketchup or mustard. If I were incredibly desperate to save calories, neither would end up on my lean turkey dog. (Incidentally, according to the USDA National Nutrient Database, some prepared mustard actually has 3 calories in every packet to ketchup’s 6. Not quite calorie-free; be wary, dieters!)

Also, while we’re pretending that we eat condiments for nutrition, ketchup has a bunch more potassium, vitamin A and vitamin C than mustard does.

Don’t even get me started on lycopene.

I also want to address the issue of ketchup’s lack of variety. A fine point, but only if you are able to improve on perfection. Mustard simply isn’t appealing enough in only one form, so it has several varieties in a desperate attempt to appeal to SOMEONE.

Ketchup, on the other hand, is just fine as is; you take it as it comes to you and don’t have to ruin it by adding honey or extra spice to it.

The bottom line is, ketchup is simply delicious.

This clash is totally a matter of opinion, but I submit to hypothesis that, generally, when one looks for a condiment, they aren’t overly concerned with price, calorie content (mayonnaise, anyone?), which one has more varieties, or which has better real-world connotations (mad props, though, to my man Ronald Reagan for declaring it a vegetable; try getting anyone to do that with mustard!).

You look for deliciousness, an arena in which ketchup simply can’t be beat. It’s welcome on my food anytime.

I’ve never had a drink of alcohol in my life. I had it in my mouth once by accident — I was toasting a friend at his wedding and was told it was sparkling cider. I spat it into a bush. This status of complete restraint might seem to make me incapable of making an argument about the drinking age in America, but I disagree; as the kid outside the fishbowl, tapping the glass, I may look oblong and distorted by the refraction, but everything in the tank is clear to me.

And as that boy, I support getting a cute “no fishing” sign, buying a few more colorful rocks, and lowering the drinking age for the guppies.

If you don’t think alcohol is more of a threat to America — physically, mentally, emotionally and socially — than terrorism, then you’re reading this at Miller:30 anyway. It is the fuel for the engine of sin, rending this nation apart with almost surgical precision, through crumbling marriages, sexual hubris, and enough wrecked vehicles and bodies to drive an IED to, well, drink. Bars are our temples, Friday nights the new Sabbath, and the tithe given to this liquid and its orbital vices far in excess of 10%. Alcohol is an immovably entrenched American religion, with zealots of greater number and passion than our own. I can only hope to somehow alleviate alcohol’s oppression and shocking effects.

As I think about this drug, I am most immediately aware of the sheer irresponsibility accompanying its use. Current federal law requires an American to be 21 before imbibing an alcoholic beverage and making a fool of themselves at Jeff’s party — by then, the drinker can vote for 3 years, die for his country for 4, and may be graduating from college (or if Steve Maxon, finishing his doctorate), having babies, and living on his own. This sheer amount of societal load (and expectancy) implies an almost-certain furtive use of alcohol before age 21. This use is best defined as rebellion, usually accompanied by reckless behavior and the instilling of certain attitudes that will forever accompany the use of spirits.

My argument follows a simple equation. (The vast amount of alcohol in our country + its glamorization + the legal restraints on its use) x (Ample access to it anyway) = Almost-universal illegal use, overwhelmingly without parental knowledge or supervision. The parental relationship has always served as the tonic to societal malfeasance, and in light of the immense destruction alcohol causes our country, we must strengthen this relationship.

I would lower the drinking age to 17, and the purchasing age to 18. This would require parental knowledge of its use, with proper instructions and expectations. Perhaps it would even produce an unsettling amount of introspection after seeing its effects on our youth, with a small mirroring effect on an adult’s own use. With a problem as powerful as potent potables, we need to flush the enemy out of the shadows and away from punk kids who meet behind the old mall on Saturdays to share a fifth. As with most societal problems, we need to return the responsibility to parents, rather than relying on a law that tries to do the parenting while neutering a parent’s ability in the same stroke.

Theories abound regarding the benefits of lowering the drinking age in the United States. Proponents laud continental European nations where drinking ages effectively do not exist, yet cultural expectations toward alcohol seem vastly more healthy than America. They cite increased parental involvement with newly legal teen drinkers, leading to a much-needed steadying hand while the youths negotiate difficult terrain. Finally comes the oft and proudly cried, “If you can die for your country, you ought to be able to drink a beer there!” However, these arguments fail to ring true for me.

Nations such as Spain, Portugal, and France are often put forward as the new model for dealing with alcohol in the United States. These Romance- language speaking nations have relatively lax policies toward youth and alcohol, and manage to enjoy low rates of alcoholism and alcohol- influenced crime and death.

However, to claim these laudable statistics came about only because of early exposure of youths to alcohol is ludicrous. England, a country with a long-standing legal drinking age of 18, is widely renowned for the binge-drinking propensities of its young people, at home and abroad. The culture of Iberia and its environs seems steeped in alcohol, and that’s the secret to the apparent lack of youth fascination with it there.

But in the domains of the Anglo-Saxon, a more Puritan view of alcohol has lent it an aura of mystique youths are incapable of escaping. Lowering the drinking age will not result in an overnight change to our nation’s culture, nor a reversal of alcohol’s taboo status.

Claiming that lowering the drinking age will encourage parents to take an active role in teaching their children the proper way to approach alcohol is similarly ridiculous. How can we expect a nation of parents, who through ignorance or apathy ignore the illegal drinking of their children, to step up and oversee their legal drinking? Parenting must be left to the parents, I’ll agree with that every time, but when the life at stake could be an innocent, I’ll let society trump the average parent every time.

Arguing that youths are able to join the armed forces at 17, but must wait four long years to drink legally, seems like disjointed logic. Taking up arms to defend one’s country is a very important responsibility, yet absolutely zero well-founded medical studies have shown military training to have an adverse affect on the development of a teenager’s brain. The miracle that is the millions of electrical connections which together form the seat of our cognition is not fully understood, but what is understood are the facts that the brain continues to evolve well into the twenties, and that it is absolutely, unquestionably and negatively affected by alcohol use.

We are a nation founded on freedoms. But sometimes the greater good to society of decreasing brain damage in the upcoming generation outweighs Junior’s right to tap the Rockies after prom.

Let me get the possibly offensive, yet totally true, arguments out of the way first. Women are weaker than men — significantly weaker. Till adolescence, girls can hold their own in a fight, but the same biological imperatives that turn boys into testosterone-fueled beasts of burden unfairly round women off, widening their hips and sounding the “ready for babies” alarm like a bell.

God and puberty prepare young men for battle; after all, to the species, your average dude is pretty expendable. But young women? They get the special estrogen treatment, and since that results in (for instance) a body fat percentage double the size of the closest competing gender, pretending everybody’s the same on the field of battle isn’t a harmless multicultural fantasy — it’s a dangerous, deadly mistake. Many soldiers have to carry gear heavier than the average woman.

But let’s pretend it’s somehow possible to overcome the obvious and innate advantages in speed and strength that men have over women; let’s imagine we’ve triumphed over pregnancy, menstruation, and emotion, and that our enemies will treat captive women the same as captive men. Oh glorious day!

I’d still oppose it with the same strength and fervor. For one thing, it’s not necessary. If women seem to be needed on the front lines, it’s not because there aren’t enough able-bodied young men to pick up the slack; it’s because those guys are bumming around on street corners and slouching their way through English Lit classes. A realistic look at our armed forces in the event of another (God forbid) world war doesn’t involve a battalion of Amazons — it will require a real live, straight-up draft of the men in our country, from high-achieving Harvard Business School types to no-account middle school dropouts.

China invades us any time in the next fifteen years? I’m an airman the next day, and that’s a promise. But try to sign my sister up and you might be the next casualty.

Which leads me to my next and final point. Women do not belong in combat because of what such a policy would say about our nation. Many American men are already shamefully irresponsible, neglecting their proper roles as husbands and fathers to seek their own pleasure and fulfillment. Sending women to carry out what is the ultimate male responsibility — the protection of one’s own nation and family against those who would do them harm — would lower that shame to unbelievable and sickening depths.

Combat changes people; it hardens and coarsens them, as they experience horrors the uninitiated can never understand. They are trained to kill and destroy, work no man should ever have to do — but some must. To extend that tremendous sacrifice to women would be an act of both foolishness and cowardice.

I’m not saying that we should entirely man our front lines with women. Nor am I saying that all women in the service are cut out for front line duty. All I’m saying is that there are some benefits for allowing women to serve in combat situations.

In modern combat, sure there’s still a ton of physically demanding effort: running, carrying large packs, heavy weapons, and still some hand-to-hand combat. But as time has progressed since Cain beat Abel with a club. Weapons have become lighter and more efficient.

Certainly, the strongest men will always be stronger than the strongest women. Usually average men are stronger than average women. But I’ll tell you what: I’ve seen some pretty big women in my day, and I don’t make a habit of visiting the opera. Leather jackets, tattoos and biceps the size of my head… Yet if some hulking beast of a woman rode up to a recruiting station on her Harley and wanted to enlist, Steve would smile at her and sign her up as a candy striper.

Throughout every major conflict of the 20th and 21st centuries, women have played key roles. In both WWII and Chechnya, women served as effective snipers. Though usually pressed into service when defending their homes and children, women have done more than provide aid and comfort to soldiers; they’ve served as soldiers, officers, smugglers, spies, and scouts. Women can be capable of doing the same thing a man can during wartimes, without drawing as much suspicion.

Let’s kick this thing up a notch.

The theory was first proposed by Dave Barry, but let’s revisit it. When women spend time together, their, ahem, cycles, tend to synchronize. If the US Army had platoons of just women, that means for four days out of every month, we would have the single most vicious, nasty, murderous platoon of soldiers on the face of the planet. I don’t know about Osama, but I certainly wouldn’t want to be chased through the mountains of Pakistan by PMS Platoon from Hell.

One of the arguments against putting women on the front lines is usually this: Men who see a wounded woman will be demoralized in combat. BULL! I live near an army base. I read the newspaper reports of spousal abuse. I work with army wives who were either abused themselves or have a girlfriend who was abused. So some GI Joe can see his own beaten wife, but some strange woman? I’m not buying it.

Give ’em guns and let ’em fight back.

I’ve got nothing against fantasy football; I’m sure it can be very engaging. However, I’m a person who likes to keep fantasy truly fantastic. If I didn’t have to be who I am right now, is participating in American football in any way, even at the uppermost echelons, really my ideal? Almost certainly not.

On the other hand, if I could choose to be someone else, would being the emperor of an empire spanning several galaxies be my top choice? Quite possibly, especially if I didn’t have to deal with those nasty coups and uprisings that have plagued empires since their development.

Enter the fantastic world of Ogame.

I don’t think I would enjoy fantasy football very much because I imagine it takes a good deal of prior knowledge and statistical research to be successful, yet much of what determines your team’s success is out of your control. On the other hand, Ogame throws some chance elements your way (the actions of other players), but there is nearly always something you can do to protect yourself, or at least get them back pretty well.

You can never actually lose in the sense of being forced to quit, so a season of hard work is unlikely to come to nothing after a large attack. Finally, Ogame is very quick to pick up; all you have to know is how to tell time. In short, Ogame puts you in almost complete control of your own destiny, and with good strategy, you can reap the rewards of your success or suffer the consequences of your failings, learn from it all, and rebuild.

In a text article, I can’t give anyone a good sense of what Ogame is really like. I will say, however, that the best reason to play is the friendships you can make. Recently I was in an alliance with people from the US, the UK, Australia, New Zealand, and Lebanon, and while we don’t talk to each other that often, it’s satisfying to know that, because of one silly browser-based game, I now have at least a few friends in countries all over the world.

I wish I could explain it more thoroughly, but my fleets have just delivered resources to a planet of mine, so I’ll see you later.

I just got finished with my fantasy football draft. It’s one of the more polarizing events of the year, as those who take part in such things eagerly exchange strategy and war stories, and those who do not look at the others as though they’re crazy, or the world’s biggest losers, or both.

For those of you who began shaking your head the moment you read the title of this clash (yet for some reason are still reading) let me explain why fantasy football is one of the greatest leisure activities known to man. For sports fans, it’s absolutely indispensable. You’re going to watch the games anyway, so you might as well have a rooting interest, especially for games late in the season when your favorite team is languishing.

Not to mention, every sports fan has always wanted to be a general manager. As we watch the personnel decisions made by real teams, we love to criticize and postulate that we could do better. Well here’s the chance to prove it! Not against actual general managers, sure, but against your friends.

And that’s why fantasy football can appeal even to those who aren’t big sports fans. Everyone loves the chance to gain bragging rights over their friends, be it for a victorious season or just fleecing them in a trade.

The biggest reason to love fantasy football in the internet age is the chance to stay connected with those friends. During our draft, I had phone conversations with my former roommate, my uncle, my brother, a childhood friend and my dad, all decidedly out of town but completely connected through the league. I actually had a conference call with the latter three, a conversational combination unseen since my brother’s wedding.

Listen, I’d love to tell you more, but I’m off to propose a trade.