Though I’ve only been golfing a few times in my life, it was clear that my reputation had preceded me at the course last weekend. I know this because golfers immediately traded ball caps for hard hats, then scurried down into the sand bunkers like allied forces preparing for heavy fire.

As I took a practice swing, the surrounding trees emptied of all bird species — not in a smooth, organized pattern, but in a frenzied explosion of flapping and panicked birdsong that left three Canada geese lying unconscious in the rough.

(Speaking of which, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize once again for the tragic death of that swan near the putting green. Had I known the difference between a putter and a pitching wedge, things might’ve turned out differently for that majestic creature.)

Because of my past experiences, I was determined to make things different this time.

How?

By becoming more comfortable with the game. Like a lot of people, I’ve always been intimidated by golf. This stems from my fear of unintentionally doing something which, as a result of NOT knowing the proper etiquette, gets me clubbed to death by someone with a 9-iron. What’s confusing is that actions which would justify a good clubbing under normal circumstances are actually no big deal in golf.

You want to swing your club and take a six-inch gouge out of an otherwise perfect lawn?

Fine.

Want to drink a beer AND drive an electric go-cart through the woods?

Perfectly acceptable.

However, walk between someone’s ball and a small hole in the ground, and there’s a good chance you’ll be found floating in a water hazard.

Once I felt comfortable with the basic etiquette of golf, I then focused on the fundamentals. This starts with finding your “natural swing.” Ask any golfer the secret to finding this, and they’ll tell you its all about having the proper grip. To achieve this, make sure the back of your left hand and the palm of your right hand are both facing your target. Then, in a smooth arc, bring them up to your mouth while making sure not to spill your beer. After several practice swigs, you’ll be ready to leave the cart and try teeing off. This may not improve your swing much, but it will provide you with a legitimate excuse as to why you shot a 168 on a par 72 course.

All in all, the thing to remember is that you will undoubtedly make some mistakes your first time on the course.

That’s to be expected.

What won’t be expected, however, is a hollowed-out golf club that can be loaded with tees and used as a blow gun should you need to defend yourself.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, Ore. 97439)

You should be aware that the idea of promoting an important issue through a week of “National Awareness” has gotten plain silly. There was a time when, in order to command the attention of our entire country for a whole week, you actually needed to have an issue that was important—something that could save lives, improve society, or, at the very least, boost the sale of Hallmark cards.

But not anymore.

I say this because, as you may or may not know, we’re in the middle of “National Psychic Week.” (For those of you who weren’t aware of this, I’m sorry: But there’s a very good chance you are NOT psychic.) According to one website, the purpose of this week-long focus is to “dispel skepticism [of psychics] through factual awareness.”

Thanks to an article that appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times, I have a better understanding of how it might take an entire week to dispel all that skepticism—especially after reading about Ulf Buck, a blind psychic from Meldorf, Germany, who claims he can read people’s futures by feeling their naked buttocks.

(Warning to women who frequent singles bars: Men who frequent singles bars may be reading this column.)

According to Buck, creases representing success, career and artistic ability extend inward from the extremities of the buttocks (Similar to a map of Hollywood), while five other creases radiate outward. Though Buck explained that those creases represent areas such as love and money, when asked about that crease radiating down the middle, he just said, “Ewww.”

My point is, if you have a habit of sitting naked on wicker furniture, don’t waste your time getting a buttocks reading.

No. My real point is that people no longer pay ANY attention to “National Awareness” weeks because the topics have gotten so stupid.

For example, when’s the last time you observed “National Fresh Breath” week with any level of enthusiasm? Did you gargle more? Brush better? Buy an extra roll of Certs?

(No one in THIS office did, I can tell you that.)

The problem is that there are no guidelines when it comes to petitioning for “National Awareness” status — which is why we have 40 states that participate in “Sky Awareness” week each year. First of all, do we really need a whole week? Unless you’re lying face down getting a buttocks reading, how long does it take to look straight up? Considering that there are 10 states that don’t observe “Sky Awareness” week at all, we can conclude that they either, 1) Think it’s stupid, 2) Put all of their efforts into having a great “Fresh Breath” week, or 3) Have no idea the sky actually exists.

Which could explain the idea behind “Brain Awareness” week.

That’s right. The same people who brought us “Mustard” week and “Bat Survey” week would like us to remember that we have brains. (Even though, oddly enough, those same people scheduled “National Hot Dog” week to take place three months AFTER “National Mustard” week.)

The bottom line, of course, is that coming up with wisecracks about buttocks readings, while cheeky, requires more brain activity than most “Awareness Week” topics.

Though I’m sure that’ll change some day, exactly when is anybody’s guess.

Then again, they do say hindsight is 20/20….

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

Jelly Donut (Click image to enlarge)

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not very athletic. I made this realization in the third grade, when I was knocked unconscious 32 times playing dodge ball. After that first game, I remember waking up in the nurse’s office and being told of a special program for “gifted” athletes who were so special they got to wear a football helmet during recess. Of course, I eventually figured out there was no “special program,” and openly expressed my feelings of betrayal when I slammed my helmet on the desk of my high school counselor.

After which I was taken to the hospital with a broken finger.

I live with the memory of being an unathletic child on a daily basis. Particularly when I look in the mirror and see a man whose head still fits into a third-grade football helmet. For this reason, when my daughter asked me to coach her fourth-grade basketball team, I smiled, took her hand, and began faking a seizure. I panicked at the thought of providing guidance to a team of fourth-grade girls, any one of whom could take me to the hole. This includes my daughter, who has inherited a recessive “athletic” gene I call the “monkey factor” because, apparently, it leaps entire family trees.

Of course, none of this mattered to my daughter; she just wanted Dad to coach her team. Knowing this attitude would eventually change (possibly by the end of our first practice), I made the decision to put aside my own petty fears and be her team’s coach. In addition, I also put aside some petty cash for psychological treatment later.

To prepare myself as coach, I read books about fundamental basketball skills. I talked with other coaches. I installed a tiny basketball hoop over the trashcan in my office. Before long, I had gained confidence knowing that with hard work and determination, someone would be able to undo the damage I was doing.

For our first practice, we worked on free throws and lay-ups. I chose these areas because, as everyone knows, they are the most common —  and easiest ways — of scoring a basket.

Unless you are me.

As it turns out, repeatedly sending a wad of paper through a six-inch hoop over your trashcan doesn’t mean you’ll be able to sink a regulation basketball from the free throw line. Particularly if your entire team and most of its parents are watching, in some cases using phone cameras to send live images to friends while laughing hysterically. Confident that I had taught my team an important lesson in determination, humility, and the value of having a “shared minutes” plan, we moved on to lay-ups. It was at this point I asked parents to please put their phone cameras away. In addition to the distraction it was causing, there were also safety issues to consider since many parents had now moved under the backboard to get a better angle.

When practice ended a week later (okay, but it felt like a week) we joined hands and reached an important understanding as a team:

The coach has no “game.”

Apparently, my players don’t see this as a problem. What matters to them most is if I can be trusted, as their coach, to coordinate the snack rotation. I assured them I could, and things have gone well ever since.

They bring “game,” I bring jelly donuts.

And my helmet.

Just in case there’s a loose ball.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439.)

Airport Security (Click image to enlarge)

As many of you know, I have a fear of flying. What many of you don’t know is that I also have a fear of being seen naked. Until now, I had the comfort of knowing there was almost no chance of both happening at once, unless I somehow ended up on one of those nude flights, where I would quickly be arrested for refusing to return my tray to its upright position for take-off.

But now, thanks to the latest development in airport security technology, I no longer have to wait until I’m actually in the air and vomiting into the seat pocket in front of me before I can experience total humiliation. That’s right. I can now get things rolling before I even board the plane by stepping into a special X-ray booth and having an airport security professional see me completely naked.

According to the U.S. Transportation Security Administration, the technology has been around for several years but hasn’t been introduced as an anti-terrorism tool because of privacy concerns.

“We have now found a way to blur certain areas of the images that would otherwise be too detailed for some people’s comfort,” said TSA spokesman Alto Leering. “It’s a great alternative to a strip search — You know, unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

The machines are currently being tested in Phoenix’s Sky Harbor International Airport, as well as London’s Heathrow Airport, where Prince Charles recently helped demonstrate how areas of concern could be blurred for privacy.

“As you can see, you cannot discern how large my ears are,” he said to reporters. “And my shim-shim is completely gone.”

The press conference ended soon after, when TSA officials admitted there were no alterations applied below the Prince’s ears.

“But when you consider what we were able to do with his ears, you can image what we could do with a standard ‘shim-shim,’” officials said.

Needless to say, this has not helped ease my fears. In fact, it has made them worse by introducing the word ‘shim-shim’ into my vocabulary. Regardless, I thought doing some research to get a better understanding of this new technology might help.

Naturally, I was wrong.

We’ll begin with the name of this technology. I was hoping for something either a) extremely technical, suggesting years of exhaustive research and training, or b) something friendly that would make me feel looked upon in my nakedness with compassion. Instead, I ended up with c) “BackScatter,” which sounds like what could happen if I forget to remove my cell phone before I step infront of the X-ray.

I should also point out that, in addition to revealing metal objects, the images can also help identify the presence of nitrogen, which appears as a cloudy area on the image; nitrogen is emitted by plastic or liquid explosives.

It is also emitted by humans when they flatulate.

As I already stated, I get nervous when I fly.

It doesn’t help knowing I could be tackled by airport security because of a “cloud” on my X-ray that comes as the result of a Taco Bell value meal and my extreme anxiety over flying.

And I don’t even want to think of what will happen if bomb-sniffing dogs become part of the scenario.

So, I’d like to thank the TSA for giving me another reason to freak out the next time I have to fly somewhere. I’m already thinking I’ll need to take a seditive to help with my nerves.

Unless, of course, it gives me gas.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

Vacuum Cleaner

Soon, it will be Mother’s Day.

For many of you, it means sending a flowery card that says all the wonderful things you’d say if only you had a thesaurus and someone from Hallmark breathing down your neck. The truth is, the true meaning of Mother’s Day has been lost over the years thanks to stupid greeting cards filled with heartfelt phrases like:

If your love was an ocean, you would’ve drowned me as a child.

Or,

When I think of love, I think of you. Because of this, you have no grandchildren.

Or,

With every smile, I remember a special moment that will never ever be forgotten.

Happy belated Mother’s Day!

The true meaning of Mother’s Day, as any mother will tell you, has absolutely nothing to do with flowery cards or fond memories — and everything to do with sacrifice. That’s right. You want to let Mom know you really care? Forget about comparing her to “a beautiful rose laden with thorns of caring,” and, instead, remember all the stuff she endured for you even before you HAD a memory. If you’re not sure where to begin, I have two words for you:

Breast Pump.

True, not every mother utilized this torture device, but the mere thought that she could have is reason enough to be grateful. If you don’t believe me, go right now to the nearest full-service car wash, attach an industrial car vacuum nozzle to one of your mammilla, push the on button, and keep it there until your chest resembles a deflated balloon animal.

Then switch sides.

Repeat this process three times a day for at least six months, WITHOUT the aid of alcohol.

And remember, as you were developing and shaping, so was she: Developing swollen feet the size of couch cushions, and taking the shape of a giant Weeble capable of destroying Tokyo. Keep in mind that during this process, she was still merrily preparing for your arrival by hanging borders, assembling mobiles, making trips to the doctor, all while visiting the bathroom once every three minutes.

Then finally, to show your appreciation upon arriving into the world, you treat her to an episiotomy.

Chances are, you won’t find any of this in a greeting card. Mainly because there are very few phrases that rhyme with “episiotomy.”

Although “The things you taught-a me since your episiotomy” has potential.

That’s why I’m mentioning it here, so that hopefully, someone, somewhere, will read this and offer me a job at Hallmark.

Okay, that’s only part of the reason.

The main reason is to say “thanks” to all you wonderful mothers out there, especially those who are celebrating their very first Mother’s Day this year.

You know who you are.

And if you don’t, try turning down that breast pump a notch or two.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439)

Nothing says “sexy” faster than someone with a pair of giant lips, even if that person’s collagen injections have made their lips so enormously seductive that they can’t actually pronounce the word “sexy,” and must instead settle for calling themselves “shek-shee.” The point is, big lips are no longer just a cosmetic enhancement for people less fortunate than Mick Jagger and Angelina Jolie, whose lips are so large and incredibly sexy that they are prohibited by international law from bearing children together because, quote: “Said children could potentially upset the delicate balance between populations of humans and sucker fish.”

Though we all know that true beauty stems from inside, as any cosmetics surgeon will tell you, no one will notice unless your lips are the size of tractor tires. Which is why a new product called City Lips is being heralded as the newest, easiest and safest way to give you the lips you always wanted, but never dreamed you could have. At least not without surgically implanting tire stems in them and inflating your lips to 350 psi. Until now, those of us unable to afford expensive collagen injections were forced to live with the embarrassment of having normal, everyday lips. But thanks to City Lips, you can avoid the hassle and expense of collagen injections by using their patented do-it-yourself lip enlargement process!

That’s right! Say goodbye to snobby surgeons telling you how much better you’d look with Julia Roberts lips when their own lips look like Phyllis Diller’s. With each purchase of City Lips you’ll receive one bottle of specially formulated “lip transformer” solution and a patented dual-action applicator. This applicator is a crucial part of City Lips’ groundbreaking, two-step process — which starts by applying the “lip transformer” with one side of the patented applicator and then, after turning the applicator over, whacking your lips with it as many times as possible for 10 minutes.

Okay, I made that last part up. But according to City Lips, their new product has been named “Best Over-the-Counter Lip Plumper” by Good Housekeeping, which, as you know, recently debunked the common misconception that you could increase the size of your lips by spraying them with Pledge (although it will keep them shiny and smelling lemony fresh).

I’d also like to point out that after three large margaritas, trying to say “Best Over-the-Counter Lip Plumper” will at least make your feel like your lips are really huge.

I bring this up because I’m concerned about the mixed message this sends to young women. On one hand, they’re seeing supermodels getting thinner and thinner. On the other hand, they’re seeing those same models trip over their own lips on the runway, with nothing to break their fall except for other stumbling models, who then land in a flailing heap of inflated lips and silicone.

No more. It’s time to quit pouting, pucker up,  and accept each other’s lips just the way they are.

Unless pouting makes your lips look fuller, of course.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@oregonfast.net, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

Flashback: May 2003

In order to help prepare my daughter for her first season of T-ball, we bought a mitt, ball, practice tee, and all the equipment necessary to get started on the basics. For obvious reasons, we saw no need to purchase an athletic cup—until I decided to advise her about batting stance, at which point it became obvious that I should have.

At least for myself.

Though practice ended a little early that first day, we were back at it the following afternoon—my daughter with her bat and a look of determination, and me offering advice and encouragement a safe distance away with my bull horn. It was one of those father/daughter moments that lasted just long enough for me to realize it, and just long enough for our neighbor to cross the street and threaten to shove my bull horn somewhere that isn’t located on any ball field.

With that, we decided to try some fielding practice; I’d hit the ball to her, and she’d practice leaping on it with her eyes closed. Before we could do that, however, I had to actually HIT the ball. In my defense, I was using her bat, which is roughly the size of a cucumber. Also in my defense, let me just say that the cucumber and I have about the same degree of hand-eye coordination. Yet, between the two of us, we STILL couldn’t hit the ball.

As a father, this is very embarrassing.

(As a cucumber, it’s no big deal.)

On the other hand, this was a good opportunity to teach my daughter about the importance of not giving up, and how, through patience and determination, you can do anything.

I say this all in retrospect, having hurled her cucumber bat over the top of the house in a fit of frustration.

In spite of all this, when it came time for our daughter’s first official T-ball practice this week, we felt ready.

For those of you who’ve never watched T-ball, the rules are roughly the same as baseball; the ball is hit, the batter runs the bases, and 15 infielders throw their mitts at the ball in order to stop it. Once that is accomplished, everyone runs to a spot about eight inches in front of home plate—which is where the ball has usually landed after gravity, and a solid hit to the neck of the tee, has advanced the ball.

This isn’t always the case, however. In fact, some of the kids I saw could really whack the ball. If not for them, the outfielders walking around with mitts on their faces pretending to be monsters might not have seen any action at all.

In the end, it is the ability to cover your face with your mitt and run around in circles until you trip over a sprinkler head that separates T-ball from major league baseball (not counting Darryl Strawberry). I’d even say that professional baseball could learn a thing or two from T-ball.

But not before I learn how to hit the ball with a cucumber.  (You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

As I’m sure you’ve noticed, police dramas involving any type of forensic investigation are still very popular. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this type of crime show, it’s when old-fashioned detective work — in combination with high-tech science — is conducted by really attractive people who would otherwise be getting into water balloon fights at the Playboy Mansion. This formula has proven so popular that every major network now carries at least one of these shows (Not counting the WB, which cancelled its plans for CSI: Pennsylvania after test audiences complained that watching Quaker detectives chase villians in pony carts was “really boring.”)

In spite of this, talks are continuing about a new spin-off from the CSI franchise that would take place in Ashland, Ore., which, in real life, is home to the world’s only forensic crime lab dedicated exclusively to cases involving wildlife.

For example: When a squirrel’s death is deemed accidental after attempting to retrieve a loose walnut from Interstate 5 during the city’s annual Shakespeare Festival, it takes a highly-trained forensic detective to unravel the ugly truth.

“Hmmm. Judging from this buzzard feather I found near the scene of the crime, I think the victim was PUSHED in front of that Volvo!”

Anther important ingredient to any CSI-type show is that it take place in a unique location. Until recently, I was completely unaware of that Ashland has a free-flowing fountain that spews naturally-occurring mineral water from an underground spring.

Apparently, this is a huge attraction that draws tourists from throughout the world for a chance to drink this mineral-rich water. It is also a huge attraction for Ashland residents, who come to watch tourists gag and then rub dry grass in their mouths after actually tasting the water that comes from the fountain. I’m not saying that everyone thinks it tastes bad; but there’s a reason it’s not in a squeeze bottle next to the Evian.

Which brings us back to the city’s unique crime lab, and its potential as a new police drama. Although I’m not at liberty to divulge my source, I was able to get my hands on a page of script from the pilot episode — which opens with David Hasselhoff standing over a 60-foot-long indentation left in the grass by what he deduces was a severely undernourished boa constrictor.

Hasselhoff: I want this area completely sealed off. It’s going to take a while to process this.

Coroner: What are you doing?

Hasselhoff: I’m going to sift through all 60 feet, starting here at this water faucet and all the way across the yard to the vegetable garden. I WILL find out who starved this poor snake and just left it out here to die.

Coroner: You DO understand that this was made by the garden hose after we moved it, right?

Hasselhoff: Hmmm?

As you can see, there’s plenty of potential here for some riveting television drama. Granted, it isn’t Shakespeare. But I don’t think it’ll be hard to swallow.

Especially with a little mineral water.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, Or. 97439, or at nhickson@oregonfast.net.)

When I was a kid I had a book called Mysteries of the Unexplained that contained AMAZING BUT TRUE! stories aimed at stirring the imagination, eliciting a sense of wonder, and prolonging the bed-wetting experience by at least three years. I’d huddle beneath the covers with my flashlight and read about strange psychic phenomena documented by real scientists, physicists, private investigators, and the occasional freaked-out paranormal expert who, at the end of the story, usually abandoned his profession to become a plumber:

“Even now, after all these years, I can still feel those icy fingers whenever a cold breeze blows across my butt crack…”

Though the book was mostly about ghosts, aliens, strange disappearances and creepy folklore (…so stand alone in the dark, if you dare. Hold a mirror and repeat the words “Sassafras Sally.” And prepare to be slapped by a pair of wet tea bags), it was spontaneous human combustion that really got to me. I think it’s because, in my mind, ghosts, aliens, strange disappearance and folklore could all be avoided by exercising a little caution.

Spot an alien spaceship? Run.

Worried about Sassafras Sally? Introduce her to Chi tea.

Concerned about taking a cruise through the Bermuda Triangle? Go to Disneyland and settle for the “Pirates of the Caribbean” instead.

But burst into flames in the middle of Mrs. Frump’s sixth-grade classroom, and chances are you’d be reduced to a pair of smoking sneakers long before you could acquire a hall pass and make it to a water source. Because of this fear, I mapped out the location of every fire extinguisher and water fountain at Jane Adams Elementary, and remained within eight feet of something to douse myself with throughout much of the sixth grade. Suffice it to say, except for visiting the public pool and local fire station, I missed most of my class field trips.

I’m 43 now, and, aside from “All-You-Can-Eat Frijole Night” at Juan’s Cantina, I’ve overcome my fear of spontaneously combusting.

At least until yesterday.

That’s when “Peggy” from our composition department handed me a news article about a man in Warrnambool, Australia whose clothes spontaneously built up 40,000 volts of static electricity. According to Frank Clewers, he was unaware of being a human power grid until a secretary noticed his shoes were burning a hole in the office carpet. After several awkward minutes of misinterpreting his secretary’s warnings of “You’re sizzling!” and “You’re making my hair stand up!” as sexual innuendo, Frank realized what was happening and contacted the fire department. Fire official Henry Barton believes it was the combination of Franks’ woolen shirt and synthetic nylon jacket rubbing together that created a charge “just shy of spontaneous combustion.”

I’m no electrician, but had shag carpet been involved, I doubt Frank would still be alive.

After reading about this incident, I thanked “Peggy” (whom I used to like), then slowly removed my nylon coat and wool sweater, trying to generate as little friction as possible, by cutting them from my body with a pair of scissors. That’s because I’m one of those people who’s constantly building up small amounts of static electricity. Our cat became aware of this phenomenon after rubbing on my leg once. This was followed by a loud “pop,” a blue flash, and our cat performing a hissing cartwheel.

Needless to say, thanks to “Peggy,” my condition has now escalated from minor annoyance to full-blown phobia. I no longer leave the house without a copper wire running from my undershorts to the ground, and I go through at least four cans of “Cling Free” a day.

I’m sure I’ll eventually overcome my fear again. In the meantime, I really need to finish mapping out the extinguishers and water sources in our office.  

(You can write to Ned Hickson at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439, or nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com.)

Like many of you, I’ve watched in utter disbelief as beverages are thrown at players during professional sporting events, leaving me to wonder: How could any self-respecting sports fan allow themselves to be seen on national television, in front of millions of viewers, wasting a seven-dollar beer?

What is most disturbing, say sociologists, is that this type of behavior is now spreading to sports no one even cares about. For example, the recent World Ping Pong Championships in Seattle, where the only spectator at the event suddenly leaped from stands and, without warning, began hurling ping pong balls at the visiting Chinese team. The situation intensified when the Chinese, brandishing their paddles, relentlessly backhanded enough balls into the assailant to render him unconscious. Though some felt the response was excessive, investigators declined to issue any formal charges against the Chinese since no player actually left his seat during the volley.

“It is our conclusion that the Chinese acted with proper restraint, given the fact that, had they wanted to, they could have killed their attacker in less than 10 seconds,” said a chief investigator.

Aggressive fan behavior has already prompted threats of a strike if security measures aren’t tightened before the start of next year’s Pro Bowling Tour. “We don’t intend to make the same mistake as other sports,” said a PBA spokesman. “The time to act is NOW, before we have spectators we don’t actually know.”

Psychiatrists argue the only way to reverse this trend is by teaching fans constructive ways to voice their disapproval. In a recent experiment conducted by the American Psychiatrists Association, Lakers fans were issued sock puppets resembling Kobe Bryant and told to “Sock it to Kobe” by telling the puppet how they felt.

“We all agreed it was a success when, at one point, there were literally 20,000 spectators in the stands yelling and screaming at sock puppets,” said one psychiatrist. “We also agreed never to do it again because, quite frankly, it was the creepiest thing we’d ever seen.”

In spite of a promise from NBA commissioner David Stern to protect athletes from unruly fans, “even if it means restricting alcohol consumption by raising the price of beer,” agents and union officials say it’s going to take more than promises to quell the anxiety many athletes now feel when stepping onto the court.

“Getting sucker punched and shanked by a defender is just part of professional basketball,” said union director Billy Hunter. “But no athlete should be expected to go out, night after night, knowing he might get hit with an empty beer cup — or worse, a paternity suit.”

When asked to comment on talk of a potential strike if tighter security measures aren’t in place by season play-offs in April, Hunter called the rumors “laughable” and denied any plans to strike because of security issues.

“If we strike, it’ll be for more money,” said Hunter. “Sadly, after paying for child support, defense attorneys and anger management classes, many athletes are dangerously close to making the league minimum of $1.3 million — which sounds like a lot, until you factor in the cost of tricking out a 16-seat Humvee.”

On a personal note, I plan to continue viewing professional sports from the safety of my own living room. The beer is cheap. The seats are more comfortable. And if I get angry, I have my own set of sock puppets. 

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@oregonfast.net, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439.)