The race for the Alabama 5th Congressional District seat being vacated by Rep. Bud Cramer has been one of the nastiest that I’ve witnessed in a long time. The two candidates, Republican Wayne Parker and Democrat Parker Griffith, have spent considerably more time and money slinging mud and impugning the other’s character than they have actually talking about themselves, their qualifications and exactly how they plan to help their constituents once they’re in office (Update: please see my correction to this paragraph in the comments section).

Just how bad has it been? So bad that even the editorial board at the Huntsville Times is fed up and has refused to endorse either candidate. And neither will I.

I don’t know either gentleman, although I know a little more about Wayne Parker since his kid has played soccer against my kid and he’s an elder at a church across the street from mine. Parker Griffith is a retired radiation oncologist who was already out of that profession and into other ventures when I moved to Huntsville in 1993, so I don’t know him at all.

All I know is what I’ve seen in their ads, and they haven’t really helped me gain more knowledge about their qualifications. So, I’m left with the rather round about way of choosing a candidate by deciding which candidate’s ads offended me the most and then voting against that one–or not voting for either.

At the center of this campaign has been Wayne Parker’s accusation, based on the release of what were supposed to be sealed, confidential peer reviews of Parker Griffith’s medical charts from the late 1980s, that he was a substandard physician who undertreated cancer patients so that he could make more money. If you haven’t followed this, you can get up to speed here.

I’m not here to defend Parker Griffith’s medical care, although many former patients and colleagues have stepped up to do just that. I can only point out that chart reviews only tell part of the story. It sounds like Parker Griffith didn’t keep particularly good notes–you’d be suprised (or maybe you wouldn’t) at how many physicians don’t. A chart review doesn’t include an examination of the patient nor the thoughts that were going on inside the doctor’s head when treatment decisions were being made.

We were told in school that “if it’s not in the chart, then it didn’t happen.” In other words, if you want to let people know what you were thinking, document, document, document. Yet, many doctors fail to do a good job at that, and it would appear that Parker Griffith’s documentation at times was substandard.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean his care was. I’ve been involved in a lot of peer review, both as the reviewer and the review-ee, and I know for a fact, because I have seen it happen, that chart review can be used against a doctor in an untoward, “political” fashion by someone holding a grudge. So, on the surface, I find Parker Griffith’s assertion that he was the victim of a politically-motivated hit job by fellow doctors who were put out with him over his opening of a cancer treatment center which would compete directly with Huntsville Hospital to be, at the very least, plausible.

I’m quite sure that if somebody really wanted to go over my patient charts with a fine tooth comb, cherry pick some questionable entries and then make me look like a bad doctor, they would probably have no trouble doing so.

What really irks me here is the way Wayne Parker has taken these leaked, 20-year-old confidential documents and flung them out into the public forum where average voters and laypeople for the most part don’t understand the nuance, art and practice of medicine and the clinical and legal issues surrounding it and used them to paint his opponent as a monster who intentionally undertreated cancer patients so that he could make more money.

Such a conclusion is an overreaching extrapolation of the data in those charts, to say the least. If such a monster actually existed, then Parker Griffith’s peers at Huntsville Hospital during that time would have had an ethical obligation to turn him into the Alabama Medical Board ASAP in order to strip him of his license and to protect the public.

The fact that that apparently didn’t happen speaks volumes. Yet, this attack has been Wayne Parker’s main argument in this election and it has been effective. Parker Griffith may very well lose the election because of it.

And then, there was the whole “Islam thing,” too.

In a recent televised debate, both candidates were asked, “If Jesus were running for Congress, how would he have run his campaign?” (only in the Deep South, right?)

Wayne Parker responded by saying Jesus was not “meek and mild” but instead a “man’s man” who would “always speak the truth” and call out his opponents for their hypocrisy and misdeeds.

I took this to mean that if potentially misleading confidential peer reviews had been leaked to Jesus that he wouldn’t have hesitated to use them to smear one of his opponents either.

Parker Griffith responded by saying that Jesus would have focused more on the struggling masses and then he said this:

“(Jesus) would probably be ashamed of both of us a little bit.”

In the climatic scene in Flannery O’Connor’s short story “A Good Man Is Hard To Find,” the Grandmother, who has always lived a selfish and judgmental life, is about to be brutally murdered by an escaped convict, The Misfit. In her final seconds, she has a moment of illumination when she sees herself and The Misfit as who they both truly are–mutually fallen members of the same human family in need of Grace and redemption.

After she’s dead, The Misfit, who has been startled to his core by this moment of Grace, says, “She would of been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”

It didn’t appear to me that anybody was holding a gun to Parker Griffith’s head when he spoke those words of truth. Neither Wayne Parker nor Parker Griffith may be truly “good men,” but it may very well be that one is a better man than the other.

“A full 67 percent of Americans say they’ve seen enough and they don’t want any more presidential debates. The other 33 percent are plumbers who want to hear their name on television.” – Conan O’Brien

McCain front man and pseudo-plumber “Joe” Samuel Wurzelbacher of Holland, Ohio, a.k.a. “Joe the Plumber,” continues to stretch his 15 minutes of fame to the breaking point and beyond.

Apparently, he’s gone all Nashville on us and plans to parlay his recent notoriety and mad music skillz (honed while singing the latest Aaron Tippin tune in the shower) into a recording contract. What a country!

The only question remaining is this: Who will play Joe the Plumber in the made-for-TV movie?

Bruce Willis seems like an obvious choice, but my money’s on Michael Chiklis.

The economy? National security? The threat of a new wave of soul-sapping socialism?

Meh. It’s about the pipes, stupid.

(Now before y’all go accusing me of being one of those un-American East Coast elitists for poking a little fun at ol’ Joe, let me remind you of my blue collar roots. I grew up in rural Southwest Virginia listening to my neighbors play bluegrass music on their front lawn every Saturday night (I kid you not). My father was a disabled Navy veteran and a postal clerk. My father’s father was a steelworker who retired at 65 and then worked as a janitor until he was nearly 80. My mother’s father helped build the Blue Ridge Parkway with the Civilian Conservation Corps during The Great Depression, cut lumber most of his life, made a bundle in flea markets which he kept hidden under his mattress and guarded closely with the shotgun in the corner and the pistol under his pillow, and as far as know, never paid a single cent in taxes to the IRS in his life–sorta like Joe the Plumber!

Oh, and he ran a little moonshine, too. I’m just sayin’.)

I’ve had to chuckle a bit at all the talk of socialism over the past few days.

I thought: Hey, aren’t we already a bit socialist anyway?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t our federal government just basically take over our financial system, and under a Republican president no less?

Don’t we already garnish a portion of the wages of working stiffs like you and me and funnel it toward a fund from which we provide health care (Medicare) and financial support (Social Security) for the elderly?

Aren’t I personally part of a system that takes your money–yes, YOUR MONEY–and pools it to provide a vast fund for the health care of our nation’s veterans, you know, the ones who as President Lincoln said, “hath borne the battle” and therefore we have a moral obligation to support?

Don’t we already “share” ownership of a lot of things in this country and pool and redistribute the money for various purposes?

Don’t we all benefit from that at one time or another?

Does raising the top marginal tax rate from 35 to 39.6 percent (which is what it was under President Clinton and what it would be if the Bush tax cuts are allowed to expire–tax cuts which Senator McCain initially opposed before he had to cuddle up to the far right wing of his party in order to get the nomination) make Senator Obama a socialist?

Did the 90 percent top marginal tax rate which was in effect in the 1950s under war hero and Republican President Dwight D. Eisenhower make him a communist? For that matter, what about Teddy Roosevelt? Haven’t I warned you all before about longing too much for “the good ol’ days?”

Isn’t there something called the Alaskan Permanent Fund? Sarah? Sarah? SARAAAAH?

We’re set up, unlike other states in the union, where it’s collectively Alaskans own the resources. So we share in the wealth when the development of these resources occurs.

–Alaska Governor Sarah Palin in an interview with New Yorker magazine several weeks BEFORE being nominated for Vice-President

Collectively? Share in the wealth? That’s what I thought.

Look, I’m not a big “fan” of progressive taxation (I’m more of a flat-earth, flat-tax man myself), but I do understand the arguments for it (for a conservative, pragmatic defense of it, click here) and it has been around since, like, 1913, so isn’t the same system we’ve been living under for a long time?

Don’t you think real socialists over there in Europe and other genuinely un-American places like that laugh at us derisively for saying things like we have in the past week? You betcha they do.

So do you think we can chill out a bit on this whole socialist thing and get some much-needed perspective? Yes we can.

And for those who had the misfortune of being born a little too late, here’s a little ditty you won’t get out of your mind for the rest of the day. Just substitute the word “socialist” for “Pepper” and you’ll be good to go.

The legions of crimson-clad Bama fans who invaded Knoxville’s Neyland Stadium, turning it into Tuscaloosa-Northeast, weren’t the only ones psyched up about the Tide’s workmanlike 29-9 dismantling of what’s left of the Tennessee Volunteers Saturday night.

As you can see, despite the threat of NCAA sanctions for “extra benefits,” Amazing Gracie the Wonderdog fired up her traditional victory stogie nonetheless.

Come to think of it, Gracie’s life revolves around a full menu of “extra benefits:”

• The traditional victory cigar, of course, along with the lovely houndstooth collar.
• An always-full water bowl and endless supply of dog food and glucosamine-fortified treats (she has a touch of arthritis in her hips, poor baby).
• On sunny days, thermo-therapy for those arthritic hips via the sunbeam which streams through our dining room window most of the day
• 24-7 access to a full array of massage and physical therapy, including head, chest and stomach rubs
• The privilege of sleeping whenever and wherever her little heart desires, including the new living room furniture
• A big back yard where she can run, bask in the sun, “take care of her business” and play with her little chipmunk friends, even if it does mean they end up with broken necks
• The divine right to be recognized by anyone who walks into the room, including all visitors who must first fall on their knees and pay full homage the moment they enter the front door

All toll, it’s enough to make your typical NCAA bureaucrat seize up in a fit of prickly self-righteousness.

Yeah, it’s a dog’s life, but it’s not so bad when you’re 8-0.

As Gracie would say, “Ro Ride, Ro!”

This picture of distraught Tennessee Vol fans was taken at Florida last year, but it’s probably pretty representative of how they looked toward the end of that 41-17 smackdown in T-town a few weeks later when the Million Dollar Band was firing up The Rammer Jammer.

For those of you from other less-civilized parts of the world, The Rammer Jammer is a traditional, and somewhat controversial, cheer taunt which is heard in the closing seconds of a football game when the outcome has been decided in the Crimson Tide’s favor. Oh sure, it does contain a relatively mild profanity, but that very same word is mentioned in the Bible a bunch of times after all, so it can’t be that bad.

I know what you’re thinking: Mike, that must be a sight to see. Yes it is, and if you’ve never had the privilege of sitting in Bryant-Denny Stadium on a bright and shiny fall afternoon to take part in that great Southern pastime, take a gander at what you’ve been missing.

I really don’t relish doing that cheer. Honestly. Especially when family members are involved.

But I will admit that I got caught up in the moment last year and texted the entire Rammer Jammer to my brother-in-law J. who was attending the game along with our 9-year-old nephew E.. J. is a Knoxville native and a graduate of the UT School of Medicine, so he came by his Vol-fandom honestly and is actually pretty low key and cool about it (smart move, this year especially).

E., however, is a cocky, all-orange-all-the-time, trash-talking little stinker who will wear you out with his endless smack even if your team happens to be blowing the Vols off the field.

I had intended the Rammer Jammer for J.’s eyes only, but as luck would have it, E. was manning the cell phone when the text message came in. He started to read it aloud, but when he got to the part about that afterlife destination that nobody wants to go to, he paused, turned to his father and said, “Dad, Uncle Mike said a bad word!”

Now don’t go feeling sorry for the kid. Believe me, the little punk deserved it. It was just deserts for the way he openly taunted us when Arkansas took the lead against Bama a month earlier when we were visiting them at their house (Bama, as you might recall, came back and won that one in a thriller. Take that E.–HA!).

After the game, J. and E. headed to a tailgate party. Number One quickly located them and joined the fun. There was no way he was going to miss an opportunity to give his orange-clad cousin a little grief. “Roll Tide!” he called out as he gave E. the customary headlock and noogie that older cousins are obligated by natural law to dish out in such situations.

E. was eager to give Number One the scoop on Uncle Mike and his bad word and then he looked up at him with those big, round, innocent eyes and asked him he used said that word back there at the stadium, too.

“Yes, I did,” Number One said. “But I only use it on very special occasions.”

Here’s hoping that tomorrow night’s game will be another such “very special occasion.” Because if it’s not, man, oh, man, am I ever going to hear about it.

Roll Tide, Roll. Please?

I saw it live and you’ve probably seen it a gazillion times since Saturday, but the lick that S.E.C. football umpire Wilbur Hackett Jr. layed on South Carolina QB Stephen Garcia is certainly worth watching again, don’t you think?

Hackett, who played linebacker for Kentucky in the late 60s, has pretty much been given a pass on this with even the “Ol’ Ball Coach” Steve Spurrier saying that it was an “accident,” but I don’t know. Watching the way he shuffles his feet, closes down on Garcia and then lays that forearm into him looks more like some kind of flashback to me.

Somewhere, Tommy Lewis is smiling. He always said in defense of that play, “I was just so full of Alabama.” It kind of makes me wonder what kind of history Hackett has with the Gamecocks.

Roll Tide, Tommy. And nice hit, Wilbur.

Saturday dawned, cool and crisp, autumn having finally made its official appearance in these Southernmost parts. Here summer begrudgingly lingers, sending forth its last waves of punishing heat even as the leaves suddenly turn brown (and only rarely yellow or red) and begin their free-fall toward the welcoming ground. Young and old alike consider this disorderly sequence, and the many dark, discouraging signs that surround us in these trying times, and we long for that first refreshing blast of cool. It perks us up. It gives us hope.

Among the pleasures of the past two days was the chance to sit on the banks of the Tennessee River and watch Number One and his University of Alabama teammates compete in their first regatta of the season. Several schools were there–LSU, Sewanee, Alabama and Auburn. Since the Barner crew was seated next to us, I turned up the volume on my radio a bit as Nick Saban inserted 365 lb. defensive lineman Terrence Cody into the game at fullback, where he proceeded to collapse the entire right side of the Ole Miss line in advance of Mark Ingram’s march into the end zone. They looked the other way and pretended to ignore my little taunt, but I know they were listening.

Number One’s boat did well for a new crew on their first cruise, slicing through the sun-dappled water with relative ease and efficiency. They were pleasantly tired as they hauled their boat out of the water moments later, but pleased with their first-time effort. Time and place were mere secondary concerns. What really mattered was the elemental pleasure of being on the water on such a glorious day, the camaraderie and the fellowship, the exulting in the vigor of youth while the time was ripe, before the days come when rowing against the stream is no longer some kind of metaphor, but instead a gritty and somber reality which dogs you every step of the way.

Well all that, and the score. “What is it?” they demanded as they lifted their boat out of the water and made a beeline toward the nearest radio.

Early Sunday, I met up with my own crew for our weekly long run. I’ve been struggling lately, feeling very tired and achy during and after my runs, and frankly I’ve been discouraged and wondering how much longer I can keep this up. But yesterday was a new day, and considerably cooler, and as I reached for my gloves, long-sleeve shirt (and yes, new shoes!), I bucked up a little and dared to dream of a pain-free run.

I settled in quickly, bobbing along like a rhythmic metronome, my running mates and I hashing out all manner of middle-age concerns, letting go, releasing our cumulative stresses and strains into the crisp morning air where they commingled with the diaphanous vapors and floated away.

My friends are all better runners than I am, several of them rugged, experienced triathletes, and they’re used to me lagging a little, to looking back, slowing down (Is he still there? Should we go back for him? Do you think he’s okay?) and waiting for me. But not yesterday. I kept the pace and at times even set it. “Nice run, Mike,” one called out. “What’s gotten into you?” asked another.

As we topped a hill near the end of our 7-miler, the rising sun hit us like a spotlight, warming our old, chilled bones, causing us to squint and lower our heads in homage. We passed a street where a family recently struck by tragedy lived, a house where a young mother was probably up at that early hour, grieving for her husband and wondering how she and her four young children were going to make their way in this life without him.

The sparkling dew was diamond dust to those of us who were alive and warmed by the rising sun. But for the widow, and for so many others, it was the thousands of tears shed and the thousands more to come.

I finished that run light as a feather but with the weight of the world on my shoulders. What do you do in the face of so much light and dark? How do you deal with the despair that lurks around every corner and down every street?

You face it all and offer up a thankful prayer for being alive. You take the day gently and humbly in your hands and treat it like rare and fragile glass. You push back a little. You row, run–whatever–against the stream.

Last Saturday night we were in Montgomery, so the Auburn-Arkansas game was blacked out, PPV only. I’d been following the game online and when I realized that Auburn was trailing–and driving–with minutes left, I yelled for Number One to follow me to the car so we could listen on the radio.

With first and goal inside the 5, at home, I just knew Auburn was going to gut it out. When they failed to score on 4th and goal, Number One and I, rather than celebrating wildly, just looked at each other, shocked and speechless.

When the Hogs intercepted Kodi Burns’ last pass, I thought about the many people I knew in that stadium, dear friends all, and I looked at Number One and said, “You know, I’m actually starting to feel a little sorry for them.”

Number One would have none of that kind of talk. In fact, I think if I hadn’t been his father, he would have slapped me.

“No, no, NO! Don’t do that! You gotta understand–they’ve gotten spoiled. They expect to win all the time, like it’s their birthright or something. You don’t have to worry about them, they’ll be back. But right now, they’ve got to suffer, just like we did. It’ll be good for them.”

I considered those words of wisdom and knew in my heart that he had spoken the truth. And then I followed him back inside where he and Number Three set about plastering their Auburn friends’ Facebook pages with a wide assortment of taunts, teases and “Roll Tides.” I laughed out loud at their creativity and joined right in–because you never know how long the good times are going to last.

Roll Tide, Roll.

I’ve been bothered by a bit of insomnia lately, but last night I slept like a baby. The difference? Presidential debate #3. Thirty minutes in, I was starting to nod and drool, so to avoid further embarrassment, I stumbled to bed and was out for the night.

I apparently missed some sharp exchanges, but I suspect those were nothing compared to the fireworks taking place at the Real Debate in Elizabethton, Tennessee. There Mark Ciptak, a blood bank employee for a local chapter of the American Red Cross, was trying to explain to his wife Layla the reason behind the loud, smelly brain fart in which he decided to go behind her back while she was still groggy from delivering their third child and change the baby’s name from “Ava Grace,” which they had previously agreed upon, to “Sarah McCain Palin Ciptak.”

I know this sounds like the kind of brilliant political satire that I might actually make up. I only wish.

His explanation? He wanted “to get the word out.” Well done, sir. You have succeeded beyond your wildest dreams.

Here’s a word for you, Mark: You can call in all the “prayer support” you can muster, but that one you “took for the cause” is going to pale in comparison to the one you’re going to take in the, well, you know.

This just in: Joe the Plumber from Holland, Ohio has been dispatched to East Tennessee to moderate the debate. And yes, he has his wrench.

In the comments from this post, Hal made a good observation to the effect that it’s important to take the long view and recall that “mud-slinging” has always been a part of American politics from our country’s inception. Now comes this article from The Washington Post verifying that same point, that verbal low-blows and fear-mongering are “nothing new under the sun.”

For instance, Abraham Lincoln’s enemies once referred to him as a “A Long, Lean, Lank, Lantern-Jawed, High Cheeked-Boned Spavined Rail-Splitting Stallion” (“spavine” refers to a general state of deterioration or decrepitude), and on another occasion as a man who “could ruin more liquor than all the boys of the town together.”

But my favorite verbal barrage from this article comes from Davy Crockett. “The King of the Wild Frontier” referred to Martin Van Buren as “dung” and then upped the ante by painting this vivid personal portrait: “(He is) a dandy. When he enters the senate chamber in the morning, he struts and swaggers like a crow in the gutter. He is laced up in corsets, such as women in a town wear, and, if possible, tighter than the best of them.”

Oooooo. And this from a man who wore fringed buckskin (well, okay, so did I, but that was 1972).

Of course, there are some differences between the attacks of today and those of yore, chief among them perhaps, saturation. Back then, only a few people might witness or read your typical slam job. These days, they’re uploaded to Youtube within minutes for viewing by the masses.

As the old saying goes, “Politics ain’t beanbag.” And at no point in our nation’s history has it ever been completely clean.

Dear Number One Son,

By now, I hope you’ve received your absentee ballot for your very first presidential election. It’s your ticket to full-fledged citizenship, so try not to lose it beneath that Mt. Everest-sized laundry pile on your dorm floor.

(click here for the rest)

“O God, we are in a battle that is raging for the soul of this nation. You, O God, have raised up Senator John McCain and Governor Sarah Palin for such a time as this … Help them, O God, to strengthen our economy, to keep our taxes and spending low … and grant them the privilege of being elected the next president and vice president.”

–Minister leading the “opening prayer” for a McCain/Palin rally in Bethlehem, PA on 10/8/08

Are you serious? I mean, really? Okay, now I see a little more clearly why Thomas Jefferson and the rest of the Founding Fathers wanted to keep some distance between religion and politics. O little town of Bethlehem, please, for the love of God and humanity, take a Xanax.

So, if you had a nearly 20-year-old son voting for the first time and a newspaper column assignment, what would you write “for such a time as this?”

Check back Sunday and find out the way I decided to handle it. No more “Mr. Chicken Soup For The Soul.” No siree. If this one doesn’t earn me at least one angry “He’s a Yankee Communist Infidel Terrorist” letter to the editor, I don’t know what will.

By the way, I wonder how many of the folks who carelessly tossed these verbal Molotov cocktails bowed their heads when it came time to pray?

Finally, I’d like to offer up a shout out to 19th Century Church of Christ ministers James Harding and David Lipscomb, who both felt that politics was such a soul-compromising affair that brought out our worst angels, that Christians should just avoid civil participation altogether.

I think you guys may have been on to something.

Sorry, I just couldn’t resist.

(This is Chapter VII of a series that I started but never really finished…let me know if you want more because there’s plenty).

Listen, I know times are tough. After I checked my retirement and college savings accounts yesterday, I had to reach for my inhaler and start playing the Taizé chants on my iPod in a continual loop.

But a little perspective is in order–I lived through the Arab Oil Embargo of the 1970s, for Pete’s sake. And as this February 20, 1975 political rant from the 7th grade personal journal that I kept for Ms. Fine’s class at Burnt Chimney Elementary School in Wirtz, Virginia amply shows, I was madder than #$%@&*, and I just wasn’t going to take it any more:

You said I could think of something to put in here, so heres the one thing I thought of [we didn't cover dangling prepositions until 10th grade]. This country is never going to get going again unless Mr. Ford and Congress stop their bickering and DO SOMETHING! [hmmm, sound familiar?]. I think they are partly to blame for this recession. [Partly? PARTLY?]. I think its dumb that the leaders of this country are fighting like little babies while everybody else in the country is suffering and waiting for them to do something [and waiting, and waiting...]. Mr. Ford never has to worry about coming up short a few dollars. If he would get off his skis for a second and live somewhere besides that fancy Whitehouse [yeah, walk a mile in my high-top Chuck Taylor basketball sneakers, Mr. Ford!] he might see how bad things really are. He never has to worry about getting laid off and out of work either [unlike Richard Nixon]. And I wish Congress would STOP FIDDLING WITH THE CLOCK!! I wouldn’t get home till 5:15 and I’d miss the Mickey Mouse Club[what the...?]. And man, thats taking it TOO FAR!!

A word of explanation is in order. Congress had implemented a year-round Daylight Savings Time in 1974 as a means of saving energy. It had the desired effect, but the “strategery” received a lot of criticism because it meant that school children in rural areas such as Southwest Virginia had to wait in the cold and dark during the winter months to catch the bus.

Our school system at the time was considering delaying the start of school by an hour. The problem was we would get home an hour later as well, and that would interfere with my afternoon TV-watching, which by that time included 20-year-old reruns of The Mickey Mouse Club (for you Millennials, this was back in The Age of Aquarius, before DVRs).

My adolescent hormones were just starting to crank up a little at that time, and one of their first targets was Annette Funicello. I thought she was HOT!!, and that was even before I saw Beach Blanket Bingo. This was exactly the type of preadolescent angst the granny-bespectacled, mini-skirted Ms. Fine was hoping to tap into, and for this particular entry she gave me an “O” for “Outstanding.”

I should also point out that the traditional grading system had been suspended at the time as well because the bleeding heart liberals who ran the schools thought that “As” and “Fs” would create an unacceptable meritocracy-based hierarchy and that somebody’s feelings might get hurt and their self-esteem crushed which would then result in a spike in juvenile delinquency.

Fortunately, on February 23, 1975, just 3 days after I penned this eloquent screed, Congress, in a rare fit of common sense and decency, rescinded the year-round DST. Crisis averted. Even then, the power of my proto-blogging was being felt across this great land. The country lumbered on, and I ditched Annette and eventually moved on to less-wholesome targets such as Farrah Fawcett and Bo Derek.

So the next time you find yourself whining about your life savings disappearing down the toilet and being re-routed to bailout some Wall Street fat cat, just remember, it could be worse–and has been.

I should know. I was there.

It’s Monday, and hopefully yours is off to a good start. But if it’s not, perhaps I can lend you some much needed perspective with a few Monday morning meltdowns gleaned from fan boards and blogs over the past couple of days. First up, an Ole Miss fan accepts the inevitable:

“We are not today, tomorrow, next week, next century in a position to be competing for conference or national championships in any sport. Period. End of Story. Take it to the bank. Put it in your pipe and smoke it. We can be competitive, but not champions.”

Over in Hawgville, things aren’t any better:

“Yet here we are again, after yet another blowout, and the same old yada,yada,yada. I not going to talk about the game or what took place. It is the same game played 3 weeks in a row.”

The Vols picked up a little momentum with a 13-9 squeaker over Northern Illinois, but still, that’s not enough for some people:

“We’re the only team in the SEC East that does not control its own destiny. OMG… Vandy and Kentucky control their own destiny. ‘It’s the end of the world as we know it.’”

Down on The Plains, the Barners are restless in the wake of Auburn’s loss to Vandy, their first to the ‘Dores since the Eisenhower administration. Here’s a juicy one:

“This game versus Vandy tonight was an ABSOLUTE emberassment! If not for our defense we would not have won any games this season….Tony Franklin is sabotaging out football team. We have so much talent on our team and he is single-handedly sending this season down the toilet. Tommy Tub needs to GET RID OF TONY FRANKLIN ASAP….like tonight….before the bus pulls out of Nashville. We can salvage this season; our boys CAN do it. We’re going to have to get rid of Tony Franklin first!! He’s not Auburn material-he’s a pathetic excuse for an offensive coordinator.”

It wasn’t just the Auburn fans, though. Here’s Auburn’s receiver Rod Smith on the game:

“I don’t know what we are right now – the spread, old Auburn offense. I’m just really confused right now. Everybody is confused.”

Yikes. But that’s not all. This from Auburn part-time QB Kodi Burns after the game:

“We’ve got to figure something out. This — man, I don’t know. This isn’t the Auburn I saw when I was recruited. This isn’t the Auburn I saw last year. I don’t know what’s going on. We’ve got to figure something out.”

Wow. When some of your top players are sounding off like that in the locker room after a loss, the ship is taking on water and starting to list.

Meanwhile, down in T-town, the Tide takes some hits from the Wildcats, guts out a tough one and sails on. This from Coach Saban, not one to dish out compliments lightly:

“These guys have done a heck of a job to get where they are…Say what you want about our team, but I’ll bet you there weren’t very many people in this room betting that they’d be 6-0 right now. I’m not sure I would have bet it either, if you want to know the truth about it.”

Atta way to fire up the troops, Nick.

But I’ve saved the messiest meltdown for last. This from a world-weary Cubs fan:

“Even better than seeing Pinella and Hendry fired would be for MLB to put this pitiful, disgusting, loser franchise out of its existence. There really should be a rule that if you can’t win one $@^%&* World Series in 100 years, then you don’t get to exist anymore. There should be a price to pay for such incompetence and ineptitude. Absolute losers. How many wasted hours have I put into these clown frauds the past 29 years. I hope Wrigley burns to the ground. 29 years of being a die hard fan of this joke of a team — there won’t be a 30th year. All the shirts and hats are going in the garbage. Not another dime on anything related to this team. No more watching the games, no more reading the papers, no more checking the stats. I’m sick and tired of being let down.”

There, feel better now?