You know it’s a scary world when you see some laundry detergent spilled in the hallway and your first thought is anthrax.

Does it bother anyone else when an athlete points to the sky or makes the sign of the cross after scoring a touchdown or hitting a home run? Hey, Jesus didn’t make you score that touchdown, buddy, you did. If you believe in God that’s fine, but incorporating a deity into your on-field celebration makes you look pretty stupid. Perhaps more irritating are the athletes that launch into some dogmatic response during routine interviews. These buddy Chris and I like to call “Jesus athletes.” Kurt Warner and Evander Holyfield are two of the worst offenders. Holyfield, former heavyweight champion, will speak at length about the Lord, Jesus and the Bible. That’s interesting, considering he competes in the most brutal of mainstream and has fathered six illegitimate children by five different women. I don’t condemn Holyfield for his sexual improprieties because everybody makes mistakes, but don’t preach about the teachings of the Bible when you continuously violate them. Furthermore, I doubt Jesus is proud that you pummel other men for a living. Kurt Warner, the St. Louis Rams quarterback, is more confusing than hypocritical. Warner can turn a simple football question into a lengthy sermon. “Kurt, what play did you run on that crucial fourth and eleven late in the third quarter?” “Well, I just want to thank God for being there on the field with me and giving me the strength to complete that pass…” Answers like this are more confusing than my mother’s frequent warnings not “to go to pot.” Athletes succeed because they are talented individuals, not because God is aiding their production on the field.

Hey, what better way to endear America to the Muslim population of the world and reverse its reputation as a racist, capitalist, bully nation than to bomb the crap out of Afghan civilians?

I miss Anthony Michael Hall. And Ally Sheedy. And Molly Ringwold. And Judd Nelson. And Emilio Estevez. Oh! I’m gonna go rent The Breakfast Club.

Hey, should we have riots and start torching couches every time a New York team doesn’t win a championship?

Martin Lawrence is in a new movie called Black Knight where he travels back to medieval times. Lawrence plays the cool black guy that makes fun of all the lame white crackers. The problem with this premise is that it has become a tired genre. Not only that, it wastes the considerable gifts of a talented comedian like Lawrence. I’m all for making fun of lame white crackers, but it should be done in moderation. Like any overdone joke, it loses humor each time it’s told. Crackers.

Congratulations to Michael Jordan for proving he can still play with the league’s elite. After a public challenge from Boston Celtics forward Paul Pierce, Jordan lit up Pierce, scoring 32 points on 12-for-26 shooting. Jordan also held Pierce to 14 points in a Wizards loss. At 38, Jordan has adopted a more jump-shot oriented game and doesn’t drive to the basket as well as he used to, but he still defends very well. Although he hasn’t been the Michael of old yet, the season is young and I have a feeling he’s just getting warmed up.

I would like to confirm a Collegian columnist’s assertion that there are in fact, wrestling fans that have skills with the ladies. I’m just not one of them.

Speaking of wrestling, why do people think they’ve just clued me in on some earth-shattering detail when they tell me it’s fake? I know it’s fake. I know it’s stupid. I don’t watch wrestling because it’s great theater. None of these wrestlers will ever be recruited to play Hamlet. I watch because the action inside the ring is impressive. The stunts these men and women do require incredible skill, strength and discipline. They may not actually be fighting, but when you see them crash through tables, take chair shots, or do front flips off of fifteen foot cages, that’s real. They put on a good show, and that’s why I watch. So please, let me watch my stupid wrestling without being reminded that it’s “fake.”

I’m really worried about my car lately. I bought it two years ago for 2000 dollars from some old man. It’s got 126,000 miles on it, and it’s American-made. Needless to say, it’s not lasting me too much longer. Not having a car would make taking a girl out interesting.

Me: Do you want to go out some time, maybe catch a flick or something?

Her: That sounds like fun. How about Saturday? Pick me up at 8?

Me: That depends. Do you live near a bus stop?

Happy retirement to Mark McGwire. After 16 injury-plagued seasons, McGwire is calling it quits, saying that spending another offseason rehabbing his surgically repaired knee didn’t appeal to him. McGwire burst onto the scene in 1987, hitting 49 homers, a rookie record, and winning Rookie of the Year honors. In 1998, he shattered Roger Maris’ single season home run record of 61, hitting 70. (Barry Bonds broke that record this season with 73). He followed the next year with 65 dingers, but spent most of 2000 and 2001 on the disabled list. He did manage 29 home runs in 2001, but batted a paltry .187. McGwire, one of the more recognizable athletes in America, was always gracious with both fans and the media. He went out of his way to include the Maris family in the 62nd home run celebration as well as Sammy Sosa, his closest competitor that year. One of the most prolific home run hitters of all time, McGwire retires with 583 homers, fifth all time. He also leaves with the best at-bat per home run average ever (10.6 at-bats per home run hit). McGwire joins Cal Ripken and Tony Gwynn as sure to be members of the Hall of Fame Class of 2007. McGwire respects the game and left when he knew he could no longer give it his best. He, along with Sosa, captivated a nation in 1998 and restored America’s love affair with baseball. Good luck, Mark. Thanks for the memories.