While much of the country’s attention is focused on Jeremiah’s Wright’s racial diatribes, Cindy McCain’s bank account, Hillary’s choice of liquor, Obama’s alleged Muslim-ness and Miley Cyrus’ bare back, the REAL STORY has slipped beneath the radar and been suppressed by the MSM:

Barack Hussein DEAN SMITH Obama is a TARHEEL!!!

Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. He was recently seen schmoozing with their prickly, thin-skinned HC Roy Williams and his gang of underachieving, powder blue cream puffs at the UNC basketball complex. This sick and galling display of political pandering can be seen here.

WARNING: The one of him posing with Psycho T, Williams and a very flabby Sam Perkins is NSFW!!!

As you can see, the fix is on as Obama appears to be keeping up with the much younger, taller and faster Tar Heels. But sources tell me that he made at most 2-3 trips up and down the floor before his Secret Service detail intervened and pulled the heaving, gasping Presidential wannabe to the sideline where he was administered oxygen, IV fluids and a massage. That’s right—a massage. Oh, and a PEDICURE TOO!!!

Another photo shows Obama driving the lane with Psycho T pretending to try to pack his shot while the rest of the Heels part like the Red Sea and let him through.

And get this: HE MISSED!!! I don’t know about you, but I want a president who can hit a layup, especially when it’s a blasted gimme, for Pete’s sake.

Barack Hussein DEAN SMITH Obama’s flirtation with the Heels clearly demonstrates that the million dollars he has illegally funneled to his East German-trained Marxist cousin in Kenya who is behind the latest uprisings there is the LEAST of our worries. The man doesn’t even have enough love of country to recognize who America’s team REALLY IS!!!

So, if you are a TRUE PATRIOT who loves God, country, CHRISTian Laettner and the American Flag all rolled into one, PLEASE FORWARD this email to your entire address book IMMEDIATELY!!!

The fate of our way of life hangs in the balance. May God help us all.

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UPDATE: This is the video that Barack Hussein DEAN SMITH Obama does NOT want you to see!!!

Ladies and gentleman, I present to you the The Duke of Corley, Sir Harrison Hairbrane of Hockenspeil and the lovely Princess Diehard Batterea of Gobamastein:

Well, no, actually it’s Number Two Son and his girlfriend E. just prior to the prom on Saturday night.

But we sure thought they looked like royalty.

Each year between late March and early June is table tennis season at our house. Or, for the unwashed masses, “ping pong” season. During those months, the temperature in the garage is just right, so out comes the table and out go the cars to sit for a short while in the driveway, exposed to the elements.

It is a season when a 46-year-old man with a bad back and a nagging case of turf toe can shine. Cocky young men from near and far flock to the garage, gird their loins (what little they have), and try in vain to knock off the “old man.”

There is only one caveat: They must serve correctly, or I will not play them. Ball held in the flat of the palm, above the table, tossed at least 6 inches without spin, contact made on the way down behind the endline. None of this cheesy, hitting-the-ball-out-of-your-hand crap. This is my house, my rules (which happen to be International Table Tennis Federation approved).

But they cannot beat me because I am The Spin Doctor. I Am Legend (sorry, Will). I have a headband and a set of vintage 1970s wrist bands. They have no chance.

Sidespin, topspin, underspin, knuckling no-spin, you name it, I have it. I have more spin than a Hillary Clinton press conference. I have more patience than Job. That is something that cocky young men do not have at all.

This spring is no different. They come, they play me, they lose, they cannot believe it, they sulk.

I am the Spin Doctor–look upon my wicked, diving topspin smash, ye mighty, and despair.

Farewell, Speedee, we hardly knew ye.

He’s being replaced with a new sign and a new McDonald’s, one with specialty coffees and free wireless internet.

Another piece of 20th century Americana bites the dust–a sign of the times.

On Tuesday, April 22, 1980, the following events occurred:

Pennsylvania primary takes place today…..PA poll shows George Bush leading Ronald Reagan, while President Carter and Sen. Ted Kennedy are in dead heat…..European Community decides to support Carter’s sanctions against Iran…..State Dept. sends telegrams to hostage families urging them to abide by ban on travel to Iran…..International Olympic Committee, meeting in Switzerland, undecided about Moscow Olympics boycott…..Canada urges it’s Olympic committee to cancel plans to attend Summer Games…..In Liberia, officials of former government are executed…..Harold Brown (not Carter’s SecDef nor the inventor of the electric chair) dies in Roanoke, Virginia at the age of 47…..House of Representatives votes in favor of additional funding for draft registration…..Officials suspecting that Rosie Ruiz did not run entire Boston Marathon begin investigation…..10th anniversary of Earth Day is celebrated…..A fire at chemical waste dump in Elizabeth, NJ spreads fumes over large area…..Fire breaks out at fertilizer plant in Ft. Hall, ID…..Potwin, KS is evacuated when toxic vapors leak from Titan II missile silo…..Forest fires reported in MI, MN, ND and WI..

As you can plainly see, it was not a particularly good day, either at home or abroad.

This post is dedicated to Number One Son and his roommate Zack.

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For some time now, the number of women entering the health professions has been on the rise. Most entering classes in schools of medicine, dentistry, optometry, pharmacy, etc have been comprised of around 50% women for several years.

The latest indications are that women are starting to grab a slight majority of entering slots. At the University of Alabama at Birmingham School of Optometry, women are really starting to rule the roost. A source there informed me recently that the 2008 entering class will be comprised of 80% women.

From the looks of the candidates who sat for my section of the National Board of Optometry Exam this past weekend in Birmingham, that 4:1 female to male ratio is already in effect. Of the twelve candidates whom I personally examined, ten were women. With the exception of one, all of them passed my section with flying colors. The two men that I evaluated did okay, but in general were less smooth and more nervous when they examined their practice patients.

They also sweated a lot more. Note to male doctors out there: wear more deodorant and don’t forget your breath mints.

Generalities from a small sample are always dangerous, but I think what I saw this past weekend may be a sign of things to come. Women are of course perfectly capable of becoming fine doctors (and have for years). They’ve learned that to get ahead in health care and other professions that they must do it “cleaner and better” than the guy standing across from them.

As a result, their undergraduate and professional school GPAs generally are higher and their performance on entry level tests such as the National Board of Optometry Exam a step above their male counterparts. At least that’s been my observation over the past few years as both an examiner for the National Board and an adjunct associate professor at UAB.

So, is this a bad thing? Well, for the profession, the patients and the women who are enjoying the rewards of healing others and getting paid well to do it–hardly.

If you’re a skinny white guy? Maybe.

But if you’re a pale male, before you cry foul, maybe you ought to consider not only using more deodorant and breath mints, but laying off the video games too.

Don’t look now skinny white guys, but suddenly you’re the ones who must do it “cleaner and better.” Saving the world from aliens in Halo and nailing a riff on Guitar Hero are all well and good, but those particular skills aren’t going to get you past me on National Board day.

This is why Number One Son chose Bama over Abuurn Auburn:

Any questions?

Roll Tide, Roll. And have a great weekend.

And that goes for you too, Tulsa Soul Winning Workshop!

Just try getting 48,000 Church of Christers together like these Catholics did for Mass yesterday in Washington DC without some sort of fight breaking out over worship music styles or women’s roles in the church.

Oh wait. Catholics argue about that stuff too. But I bet they didn’t yesterday–not with “Da Man” in town. And he even spoke in English–not Latin.

So, do Church of Christers have a de facto “Pope?” Full Professor Elrod and his shy and retiring chorus consider the question.

You’ve got to hand it to him. He may not be the rock star that Pope John Paul II was, but Benedict XVI can still pack ‘em in. There’s more to him apparently than just his righteous set of wheels.

That is, if your father had a Mercedes in the first place. Mine didn’t. But he did have a gleaming white 1960 Chevy Impala coupe with fins.

But for millions of Catholics, their Father, Pope Benedict XVI, is currently cruising the streets of Washington DC in a modified Mercedes ML-430 affectionately dubbed the “Popemobile:”

Now that is one righteous ride!

When I saw that his Holiness preferred the M-Class, I let out a loud “Roll, Benedict, Roll!” because as many of you know, that little gem is manufactured in none other than Tuscaloosa, Alabama. However, I did a little research and found that the current model was given to Pope John Paul II in June, 2002, so that means that particular one was most likely manufactured in Graz, Austria prior to Mercedes moving the entire M-Class operation to T-town.

But should he need another one anytime soon, it just might be put together by various Tide-rooting Protestants including not a few Baptists and Church of Christers. Talk about an ecumenical movement.

Speaking of Graz, Austria, in December, 2007 Pope Benedict added one of their fine G-Class products to his fleet for those times when he’s in the mood to put the top down:

I’m thinking that particular Swiss Guard driving that bad boy is packing more than a pike.

Mercedes has been manufacturing the Popemobile for over 75 years, but that hasn’t stopped others from trying to muscle in on the Vatican contract. A message to his Holiness: An Audi Q7 with Quattro would make St. Peter (and me) proud.

If you’re wondering what kind of gas mileage SCV-1 (State City of Vatican-1) is getting around DC, I’m guessing no more than 10 mpg (the armor plating adds a lot of weight). That makes for a Sasquatch-sized carbon footprint, but when you’re the leader of half of the world’s Christians representing one sixth of the world’s population, I guess you pretty much get a free pass.

Besides, he wears white, not green.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

–T.S. Eliot The Wasteland

I think Eliot was right. And that’s not even counting my own personal tragedies that have occurred in this month.

The Washington Post tells what it’s like to try to archive all the compassionate gestures directed toward Virginia Tech last year.

And here is my own contribution.

I always get a little nervous on the second Saturday night of each month before my community column is published in the Sunday Huntsville Times.

Basically, I’m afraid that the editor will make a change that will drastically alter my column and make me look like an idiot in front of thousands (well, okay, maybe a couple of hundred) of people. I have visions of people coming up to me in Target and saying, “Hey aren’t you the guy who writes that drivel in the Sunday paper?”

Last Saturday night, all that pre-publication angst turned into a writer’s worst nightmare.

In my dream, I excitedly opened the Sunday paper only to find that my column had been edited and reduced to three measly paragraphs. The three paragraphs barely contained enough detail about my trip with Keith to even tell what had happened. The text was located in the middle of the column and above and below there was only blank space. My picture was gone, and there was no byline with my name.

Instead there was a byline which read: “This column has been edited by Amy _______ (in my dream I saw the last name, but I couldn’t remember it later), a graduate of Cornell University.”

I remember thinking in my dream: Amy _________, a graduate of Cornell University? Well, la dee da! Who the #$%^*#@! does she think she is?

I awoke with a start, and after a few seconds of that Never-Never-Land sensation, I felt the flood of relief that comes with the realization that what you have just experienced was merely a bad dream. I glanced at the clock: 5:30 AM.

I stumbled out of bed, made some coffee, and for the next hour waited anxiously by the front door for the paper to arrive. The delivery person was later than usual.

But I finally heard the blessed “thump” in the driveway and ran to retrieve it (thankfully, there were no neighbors out to witness the scene–I think). Right there, in the middle of the driveway, I quickly found the Forum section, opened it, and once again felt a rush of relief as I realized it was all there–plus a few minor changes which actually made the column read even better.

All was well after all. I was glad that the editors at The Huntsville Times had not listened to Amy, even if she was a graduate of Cornell University.

I got in the truck… and away I went.

Oh, that’s right, most people like reading the first paragraph, well, first:

A burned out ignition coil on the last day of a beach vacation is a real buzz killer. Oh, and another thing: The nearest dealer was over 150 miles away in Montgomery.

For the record, I’ve complained to the editor about the disappearing-first-paragraph problem in the online edition, and he said that The Huntsville Times doesn’t own the website but instead contracts out so therefore they have no control over it.

I say it’s about time The Huntsville Times joins the 21st century and creates their own website like so many other newspapers have. We’re not in 1995 anymore, people.

I was a little nervous about riding so far with someone I didn’t know, but sometimes it pays off to take some chances. The view from my passenger side window and my conversations with Keith were just what this sometimes shell-shocked cynic needed.

There’s a lot of bad in the news these days, but there’s a lot of good “out there” too. This country is made strong and resilient by its lifeblood–its people. I really do believe the common man/woman/child has more to do with the sustained success of this country than who occupies the Oval Office at any given moment.

But it helps to have a good President too.

I promised everyone more details regarding my “mad, moonlit dash into L. A. (Lower Alabama) with a chain-smoking, Diet Coke-swilling insomniac tow truck driver named Keith.”

In my community column in this coming Sunday’s Huntsville Times, I’ll deliver.

Looking back, I had two choices. I could have simply given the keys and a note to the dealer to Keith and had him deliver the car by himself and checked on it the next day as we drove through Montgomery on the way home. Or, I could get in the truck and see what adventures lay in store along U.S. 331 on a Friday night in the heart of the Deep South.

I got in the truck.

“I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one’s neighbor – such is my idea of happiness. And then, on top of all that, you for a mate, and children, perhaps-what more can the heart of a man desire?”

- Leo Tolstoy.

What more indeed?

I recently came across this quote while watching a movie. Anybody know which one?

I’ve often struggled to put into words what constitutes a “good life.” This quote comes pretty close. It reminds me of some of the observations of The Teacher in Ecclesiastes (“That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil–this is a gift of God.”)

I think we often make life–and our faith–a lot more complicated than they have to be.

Somewhere James Naismith and Phog Allen are smiling.

And let’s not forget cg–his grill is flashin’ too. Well done, Jayhawks. You could have folded and closed down the shop with 2 minutes left, but you went with the money and started to foul the Tigers. Good move.

I bet no one associated with the Memphis program will ever refer to the foul line as the “charity” stripe again.

Rock on Jayhawks! Enjoy your day–you deserve it.