Dick Terror would be a great superhero.

I have, for some time now, not trusted my penis. It has that look. Nervous. Shifty. From a very young age, I sensed that it was up to something sinister. Now, my suspicions are beginning to grow (so to speak).

I have flown to Chicago and Orlando over the course of the last four months. And, I dutifully took my penis with me. I am nothing if not loyal. Until recently, my penis has been rather quiet, choosing to forego the sightseeing and fancy restaurants. And I respected that.

On my latest trip to Chicago, however, my penis was up every morning before I was, doing God-knows-what. Also, I believe it may have been stealing money. Cannot confirm.

I sense that you believe me to be paranoid. But there is more…

On my way through security at O'Hare International, I was…sullied.

Allow me to first say that, having passed through security stations in a post-9/11 world, I have learned to streamline myself for an easy checkpoint transition. I have laceless shoes, a fashionably unresponsive belt buckle, a note for the metal plate in my head, and all the lint in my pockets has been shaken free of potential iron filing. I’d shave my body if I thought it would help (possibly even if it wouldn’t). I’ve never had an issue.

So, after I removed my Macbook from its case and had taken off my coat and had placed all my things securely on the special conveyor belt, I maintained my characteristic level of smug arrogance as a traveling professional.

“Hold on Mr. Security Man! I shall enter your gates of judgment momentarily!” I thought to myself, secure in the knowledge of the smooth, lead-free skin beneath my cotton fiber clothing. "Ah yes! I am a modern day Marco Polo! Scanning the globe in search of new and amazing conquests! All hail and bow at the feet of the…"

Beep.

“Sir, could you step over to the side here, please?” said the vibrantly dull security denizen. Then, over his shoulder, “I NEED A MALE BODY SEARCH OVER HERE!”

Well, who doesn’t?

“Sir, could you please have a seat over there?”

Well, certainly. I am Marco Polo. My card.

“Please hold your feet straight out in front of you sir.” A new security expert now. I glance his name badge. Carl. Of course. I suspect he may be a foot fetishist.

“I need to wand your feet here…” Carl gestured.

Wand. Must…restrain…giggle…fit…

Right foot first. Down over the knee, past the shin, rounding the top of the shoes, whip past the toes there, underneath…

Beep.

Well, shit.

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to remove your shoes,” sighed Carl in a supremely indifferent fashion.

This is a problem. Believe me when I tell you that when I have to take off my shoes in a public place, the terrorists have won. Yet, off they go.

“Please stand up, sir,” he, again, sighed. Completely bored with terrorists, Carl is. “I just need to wand you here…”

We’ve done this joke Carl.

“Please put your arms out to your sides, sir.”

Jesus Christ Pose. I’m feeling outshined.

Down the arms and back again. Rings…Beep. Watch…Beep.

“That was yer watch,” states Carl.

Well, no shit, Carl. If it had been a dildo, we all could’ve had a good laugh.

Down the back. Quick brush down the front.

Beep.

“Sir, I’m gonna need for you to unbuckle your belt completely and hold the ends to the sides.”

Uhhhh-huuuuh. I have received upwards of $50 for this service in the past, so I make another quick check of his badge at this point to verify his credentials. Seems real. It’s goldish, anyway.

“All right…there ya go,” I say graciously.

“Thank you, sir,” says Carl, still blasé. “I need to wand down the front of you again.”

Okay, everyone sure as fuck better stop using “wand” as a verb around me, already.

Beep.

“That’s the button on my jeans,” I say to Carl, by way of explanation.

“Do they button all the way down, then?” Carl asks, cocking an eyebrow, wanding me up and down the length of my zipper.

Beep. Beep. Beep-beep. It’s a fucking Roadrunner cartoon down there.

“Well, no,” I answer.

Wand. Beep. Wand-wand. Beep-beep.

“Sir, I’m gonna need to feel this area,” he says.

Can you blow in my ear first, Carl?

“You need to do what, now?” I ask.

“I need to check this area,” he says calmly.

That “area”, Carl, is my penis. Can we stop calling it my “area” and show it the respect that it deserves, please?

Although…“area” does kind of make it sound large...

“Area” it is, then.

I desperately wanted to squeal or turn my head and cough or say, “a little to the left, please, and faster” as he began feeling my “area”, but I know how airport security people have such a mild sense of humor about such things. So I stay silent and think of football.

“Okay, thank you sir,” Carl said, sated.

No, thank you, Carl. At least he didn’t look up and declare, “Nope! Nothing here!”

So I buckle my belt and look down at the charming sweat stains that my size 12 feet have stamped upon the black security mat. Quick scan for comely flight attendants in the area. None in sight. Off I go to gather my shoes. They lay motionless and lonely on the security conveyor. Sharing in my humiliation, no doubt.

As of this writing, I am still on the airplane and have not gotten a chance to check my “area” more closely, so I have no idea what my penis is smuggling down there. Toenail clippers? Stiletto? Brass knuckle? Difficult to say.

I only know this: I will be keeping an eye out (poor choice of words there) for suspicious activity from my penis.

I suggest you do the same.

Springsteen would be proud

This past weekend, I experienced America on many levels.

I spent time with friends and played volleyball in the sun. I attended a sporting event with a pin-drop quiet crowd during the playing of our national anthem. I went to a party in Norman where a homeless man was allowed to come in and drink with us, simply because he was wearing a "USA" shirt.

I went and saw "Semi-Pro", which is all about one of America's greatest heroes, Jackie Moon. And I watched several episodes of Band Of Brothers in order to remind me of how great of an American actor Ron Livingston really is.

And, on at least one occasion, I sipped margaritas on an open patio. (Thank you, Magic Bullet!)

It’s good to be free.

But there are different kinds of freedom.

This is the story of one of them.

I went to Subway for lunch on Saturday. On the surface, this would seem to be a relatively benign endeavor. But no.

As I entered, I saw a nice older couple at a little booth to my right and a lone man at a table to my left. In front of me stood the Subway Sandwich Processing Assembly Line™.

There were two women in line. The second woman looked annoyed.

I quickly found out why.

The first woman in line was insane.

This woman, we’ll call her "Funt" (for short), was having troubles.

Family troubles.

Menu troubles.

IQ troubles.

Her husband, let’s call him "Whip", was sitting at the table that was opposite the SSPAL™ and he had a look on his face that clearly told me that he’d been plotting her accidental drowning death for years. Along with Whip were "Alexis" and "Troy", who likely burst forth from The Funt six and seven years ago after some sort of Immaculate Conception. They flew about, and sounded like, the crows of hell.

“Whip, what should we get? If we get the Chicken wrap, do we get the whole or the half? Should the kids split one? What are you going to get?” Funt harped, flashing her dull gaze between the vast menu and her husband’s plotting eyes.

Never give stupid people choices.

It paralyzes them.

“I don’t care, honey, get whatever you want…”

Whip tried.

“But what are you going to get? I need you to decide!” Funt insisted.

Whip quickly searched the table for spare plastic knives. None were in sight.

“I really don’t care. Just order something! I don’t want anything,” Whip said through clenched teeth.

“You don’t want anything? Well, Jesus…You need to pick…KIDS! Sit down and BE QUIET!” Funt shouted.

At this point, I had visions of bouncing her forehead off of the SSPAL™ sneeze guard.

My hands clenched.

“Sweetie, you need to order,” Whip said reluctantly as he glanced the four people now in line behind Funt.

“Well, I just don’t know what to get though…” she said, gazing at the menu as if it were a four panel long calculus equation. “I mean, a whole wrap is over five dollars, but if the kids split it, then you could get whatever you want (said accusingly) and maybe I’ll just get a half a chicken sub (said with a sigh).”

I felt a scream building in my throat. I literally looked around to see who I would be offending should I decide to go off on this woman right here in the middle of Subway. The older man at the table in the front returned my stare with what looked like approval in his eyes.

“Are we curing fucking cancer in here or making a goddamned Chipotle Southwest Cheese Steak?!! Motherfucker! It's ten goddamn - Whip, shut those fucking kids up now!! - it's ten goddamn dollars! You don't need to take out a second mortgage for this fucking lunch!

Funt, get your ample ass out of line before the rest of us starve to fucking death or I swear to Christ I’ll grab this footlong Parmesan/Oregano loaf and beat the absolute shit out of you, until the only way you’ll be able to eat anything on this goddamned menu is through a very small fucking straw!”

Is what I thought to myself.

In reality, I let out a tiny sigh that said as much.

Whip shot his wife a look and with another sigh, she finally ordered.

But then, the Subway technicians made the mistake of asking what she wanted on the subs. You would’ve thought they asked for her opinion on the Democratic nomination. The children squawked. Whip’s head dropped to his chest.

As soon as she got done with the order and began paying, Whip stood up and got in line behind us.

Funt looked over at him with slackened jaw.

“What are you doing?!?” she asked, incredulous.

“I want to get a wrap,” Whip said, quite calmly.

“Well, why didn’t you just tell me what you wanted when I asked you?!” Funt huffed.

“I just decided,” he answered with the slightest trace of a smile.

There are different kinds of freedom.

You have no idea what some people have to go through to earn it.

There goes my hero

Yeah, I cried a little bit.

Not the weeping and wailing genre of crying, but there were enough tears that I needed to excuse myself from the room.

Brett Favre is leaving the NFL.

He’s leaving the game with a Superbowl ring, three league MVP trophies, and all the passing records that matter. Between his first NFL start for the Packers until now, he has never missed a game. He dominated in the National Football League with not much more than a smile, a swagger, and a shotgun right arm. In fact, I would argue that of all the elite quarterbacks the NFL has seen in the modern era- Joe Montana, John Elway, Dan Marino, Peyton Manning, and Tom Brady; Brett Favre did the most with the least amount of help on offense.

(Save for perhaps pre-2007 offenses of Tom Brady, but that’s an argument for another day!)

I was six years old when I became a Green Bay Packer fan. Joe Montana, whom I had previously ridden as my favorite quarterback, was basically put on the chopping block in San Fransisco. He was on his way to Kansas City. My dad was angry about this, as he had loved Joe but hated the Chiefs. We were also very much a Denver Broncos household. So that anger kind of "rubbed off" on me, as I wasn't old enough to actually make my own informed sports opinions. All I knew was that I needed a new favorite player.

So how did I choose? I booted up Tecmo Super Bowl and scanned through the teams until I settled on Green Bay.

Why?

I liked that they had a receiver named Sterling Sharpe. I had a couple of his football cards and he seemed pretty good. More importantly, there was a cute girl down the street who was from Wisconsin and I figured wearing the green and gold would get me in.

Yes. I was six.

I remember when the team signed Reggie White the next year and I celebrated by going out and buying his jersey. There was a special deal if you bought two jerseys and the only other Green Bay jersey they had in stock was some guy named Favre. I was confused at the spelling, but happy to have TWO jerseys of my new favorite team.

I began my pop warner football career as a defensive end, so it surprised me when Brett Favre, and not Reggie White, would become my hero.

It’s become tired these days to say that Brett Favre is just having fun out there, but that’s what first pulled me in. I gravitated to his passion. I liked seeing someone enjoy themselves. It felt like every time the camera swung his way, whether it was on the sideline or mid-cadence, Brett was smiling. I remember one particular play that will forever be etched into my mind that defined Brett’s approach to football--

It was a playoff game between the Packers and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the jawing between Favre and the Bucs’ Warren Sapp was near historic. On fourth down, the Pack lined up and tried to draw the Bucs offsides. Brett leans over center Frank Winters and begins taunting Sapp to jump. The camera was zoomed in on the Wisconsin-cheesy grin on Favre’s face as he hassled his friend. Sapp held firm, and the defeated Favre calls a timeout and brings in the punter, but not before giving Sapp a playful head slap.

There’s a reason that this stupid, silly play is placed into my favorite memories of my favorite player. It’s up there next to the Monday nighter against the Raiders after his father passed away. It’s with the bomb of a pass hitting Andre Rison in stride to kick off the Superbowl XXXI. It’s with the snowy theatrics of last year’s playoff game against Seattle. It’s there because it showed me the most important side of football - the love of the game.

That’s what made Brett Favre special to me. You could tell every week how much he loved the game of football. I can only hope to show the same passion and devotion to whatever I get myself into in my own life.

One more thing that Brett Favre showed me: perseverance.

I was blown away at how Brett handled adversity throughout his career. Overcoming his addictions. Rebuilding his marriage. The loss of loved ones. When Brett showed up to play in the Raiders game after his father passed away, it touched me that he was doing it because his father loved to watch him play football and he didn’t know any other way of handling his loss than doing what he loved to do.

I guess it’s fitting that my hero will now ride off into the sunset.

Thanks for all of the memories, Brett.

Thanks for hanging in one more year.

And thank you for showing me the love of the game.

Go Pack, Go!

The day you move, I'm probably going to explode.

When the Great North American Smoke Detector nears the end of its life, it alerts the other forest creatures of its impending demise by letting out a piercing, intermittent chirp. And so the circle of life found it's way into Lisa's home last weekend. At 6:15 am.

I was deliciously rolling from a dream about Hayden Panettiere into a dream about Emile De Ravin (mere seconds from potential Claire on Claire action) when a loud, insistent chirping jolted me awake.

“TWEEEEEP!”

Somewhere within the house, a detector was dying. I shut my eyes tightly, in the hope of grabbing hold of my dreams again, in the hope of fending off the sad wail, but it's impossible. In the wake of Lisa's dad staying at HIS girlfriends house that night, I was forced into being man of the house. Sadly, I grab my glasses and trudge into the dark bedroom abyss.

“TWEEEEEP!”

I walk to the end of the hallway outside of the bedroom and jerk the alarm from the wall. Its umbilical cord is still trailing behind, attached to the motherly security system. I yank the cord with a mild grunt, detaching the dying animal.

Satisfaction.

I throw the detector on the hall table and make my way back to bed. Before I get to the bedroom door…

“TWEEEEEP!”

Oh right. The battery. Duh.

I grab the contraption off of the table and tear the 9-volt out of its tiny compartment. One must rip the heart from the beast in order to end the misery.

“TWEEEEEP!”

Hmmm. What's all this about? My hands appear to be clenching. I wonder how many pieces this thing will shatter into, were I to throw it through the drywall?

Perhaps I need to replace the battery. Yes, that must be it. It has no heart, but it still has a soul. And the soul still yearns to detect.

This means I need to go downstairs and find a battery, however. Claire and Claire are, at this point, smoking a post-freaky cigarette.

Their kitchen drawer holds all manner of battery– AA, AAA, AAAA, C, D, Car…

“HEY, WHERE ARE THE GODDAMNED 9-VOLT BATTERIES?!?!”

This is a conversation that we’ve had a million times at 6:15 in the morning.

“I use them for the battery pack at work – they’re up here in my bag.”

Sure you do. Sure they are.

Up the stairs I go. Literally the most exercise I’ve gotten this year.

She hands a whole sleeve of batteries to me, blindly, in some sort of bad recreation of an Olympic relay. The transition is flawless.

I replace the battery, but before I can close the battery holder door…

“TWEEEEEP!”

You. Mother. Fucker.

In my sleepy haziness, I may have grabbed the wrong detector. They squeal and echo so loudly, it’s difficult to detect the source of the shriek.

Shut up, you don't know.

I grab a different detector, from the kitchen, tear it from the wall, slam out the battery and replace it…

Wait for it…

“TWEEEEEP!”

Whore!

Now I’m turning on lights all over the house. The reason I don’t carry large caliber weaponry, say a bazooka, is because of circumstances just like this. I would blow holes through walls in a subtle effort to hunt down a rogue plastic device.

I not-so-briefly contemplate burning the house down, just to teach the detectors a lesson. "Tweeeep" all you want bitch, I’M in charge here.

I have this same reaction when a flight gets stuck in a holding pattern or something when I’m (rarely) traveling. I silently say a prayer asking that the plane slam into the ground at Mach 10, JUST SO WE’LL BE ON THE GROUND.

So clearly I have issues.

I’ve digressed.

Back upstairs now, ten goddamned feet down the hall from the first detector, they have another detector. Just how localized do they expect the fire in this place to be, exactly? Jesus.

I perform the same tear down, slam out, replace procedure.

And...

Silence.

I waddle back to the bedroom and roll into bed.

“Is it fixed?” Lisa whispers into the darkness.

“It sure as shit better be. I will burn this motherfu…” I begin.

“Uh-huh, okay. Back to sleep now,” she says.

“You heard how it was taunting me, right?” I ask.

“The world is against you, yes,” she responds.

See? She knows.

2007 Colorado Rockies -- The Greatest Story That Sports Has Ever Told?

So we finally have our 2007 World Series lined up. The most consistent team in baseball, versus the team that defies all logic.

Some people call the Red Sox 2004 ALCS/World Series victory "the greatest story baseball ever told". They won eight games in a row in order to claim that honor. But if the Colorado Rockies are able to sweep the Sox out of the Series, where would they rank? That would make 25-of-26 games that the Rockies were able to win.

If eight games in a row qualifies as "best baseball story ever", I challenge someone to find an on-field performance that tops that of the recent Rockies, in any sport.

On September 16th, the Rockies were 6 1/2 games out of the division, and 4 1/2 out of the wild card spot. This was the day that the streak began. Two weeks later, they found themselves winning 13-of-14.

They needed help from a few other teams around the MLB, and they got it. 162 games wasn't enough for their season. They had to play just one more if they wanted to make it into the post-season...

And then they defeated the Padres in the play-in game, which was one of the most exciting baseball games I have ever seen.

At that point, I was thinking that they were just "really lucky", and that their mediocre season would end on a great note because they made the playoffs. "Good for them, see ya next season", I thought.

I was sure that the Phillies were going to the World Series. They had put together a hot streak comparable to Colorado's. And I thought that they had much more talent than the Rockies have ever had in their 15-some-odd years of being a franchise.

I was wrong.

The Rockies swept Philadelphia. 17-of-18 now.

It was halfway through this series that I began to pay attention to Matt Holliday and Co. I started wondering where this ranked on my list of great sports stories. I thought that even if Colorado lost to Arizona, they had put together a hell of a run, and deserved more respect than a lot of people were giving them, just writing it off as "dumb luck".

I didn't give the Diamondbacks much credit in the first place, and so I went out on a limb and picked Colorado to beat them in 6 or 7 games.

It only took them four.

21-for-22.

Not to take anything from the Rockies, but even the most talented teams (which we can all agree, isn't the Rockies) don't win that many. This is more than luck. This is ridiculous.

Will it be overlooked by other "big name" stories? Yes. Coming back from a 3-0 deficit in the MLB post-season is fantastic, but in order to get there, the Red Sox had to also lose three in a row. If it were a team like the Rockies that came back and beat the Yankees, the sports world wouldn't have cared nearly as much, and would have promptly written Colorado off as a World Series Pretender.

George Mason in the Final Four was a big deal. The Music City Miracle was a big deal. "The Play" was a big deal. Flutie's hail mary was a big deal.

But those are just "plays" in "games".

This is a storyline of epic proportions.

We'll see how far these Rockies can write this story starting on Wednesday when they go to Fenway and face the best pitcher in baseball.

I dare someone to name a better story than this one, though.