It’s that time of year when the dog days of summer ease their barking into whimpers as autumn is upon us. For many people, not including school-age children, this is their favorite time of year. The leaves change, the temps cool down and the Twins make their final push to win the AL Central.

But we all know that those things play second fiddle to the American spectacle that is NFL football. For all pigskin proponents, this means Sunday is no longer a day of rest, but rather hoopla of screams and shouts as you watch your team fight for every yard. Mostly, it’s time to live out every fan’s dream of being the general manager of your own football team. That’s right; fantasy football is back and is ready to consume the next four months of your life.

I had never participated in fantasy football before last year. It’s not that I didn’t want to, I was just so ambivalent toward it that it never made a difference to me whether I played or not. Not to mention that football is third on my depth-chart of professional sports, behind baseball and basketball. For some reason, I never became the ravenous fan that others did. I’m guessing it’s partly because South Dakota doesn’t have a professional team, SDSU didn’t become Division 1 until I was in high school and the Lincoln High marching band was immensely better than our mediocre football team.

But last year I was introduced to fantasy, and my whole football watching experience changed dramatically. I became instantly addicted–I’m guessing it’s similar to what Darryl Strawberry felt like when he was introduced to cocaine, or when Glenn Beck was introduced to crazy pills. I went from a less-than-casual watcher with an average knowledge of football to someone who could name every quarterback, running back, and wide-receiver on all the teams. The transformation was swift and comprehensive.

I had never been drawn into something that was so worthless before. Every weekday I would download a fantasy podcast to try and get tips and inside information for my next move. I would spend, at minimum, an hour every day pondering over free-agent pickups, trade ideas and roster moves. I became obsessed with stats that had no meaning to me before, like YAC and YPC. I scrutinized every single move like my life depended on it, and would sometimes nervously lie in bed pondering a questionable roster move. Ironically, I would take time during work at the Minnesota Timberwolves to try and figure out my roster.

It wasn’t just me, but my entire house. There are only a couple of big sports fans in the house, but everyone became obsessed with it. The entire culture of our house changed during fantasy season. We used to spend countless hours debating questions like, “Who would win in a fight, Superman or a Jedi?”  But now we would talk about fantasy almost all night. Then on Sundays, our house would watch roughly eight hours of football, all while keeping our laptops open to keep track of our players, even though it was completely out of our hands.  It was easy to see that our moods were directly affected by our fantasy teams’ performances.

I thought that living in a house of uber-competitive college-aged men was something of an anomaly. But as it turns out, most men our age were as obsessive as we were. They all knew who the top fantasy performers were, and would vividly tell you what the best and worst moves are. For example, one of our fantasy teammates traded Maurice Jones-Drew for an injured LaDainian Tomlinson. I guarantee that every person who played fantasy last year just laughed at such a ludicrously awful trade.

It is ironic to think that fantasy became a gigantic part of my reality. I would make fun of my friends that would spend hours on World of Warcraft and tell them it was a waste of time and stupid, but here I was spending just as much time over-analyzing what kicker to pick up. Is it hypocritical to tell other people they are wasting their time when I am spending just as much time over-analyzing something just as fruitless? Yes and no. Yes, it is as worthless as any video game, but it’s also the most socially acceptable waste of time.  Hypocrite or not, it is incredibly fun and addictive; even if it is as worthless as the Fox News fact-checker.

By the way, a Jedi would totally win over Superman.

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One of my favorite things to do is look at Dictionary.com’s “Word of the Day.” It gives me a chance to build my vocabulary and helps me practice for the GRE. Every word I learn makes me feel smarter, for some unknown reason. It gives me an unusual confidence in knowing that I can use the word “mugwump” properly when needed to. But in the end, does this make me smart or just good at memorizing things? How do you determine if someone is truly intelligent?

Intelligence is extremely hard to quantify. Most people are very good at some things and very bad at others. For instance, I am good at trivia and I have a strong memory. I can name every president from start to finish and can quote most of Dumb and Dumber by heart, but I am terrible at math. Anything beyond pre-calculus was a struggle for me, and still is. But does this deficiency in math make me unintelligent? It’s hard to say. Maybe poorly informed, but not necessarily unintelligent.

Others lack basic common sense, but are extremely smart, nonetheless. One of my friends was an incredible student in school and is now on his way to get his masters in statistics, a subject most of us agree is very hard. However, he once said to me, “I didn’t even know what a muffler was until I got to college” and he still struggles with the most basic functions of email, like forwarding a message. I know he is smart, even if he has to call me to ask what his cell number is.

As you can see, quantifying intelligence is extremely difficult, but I still believe you can get a general idea of somebody’s brainpower through a few key indicators. I think the best one is basic use or misuse of language. Everyone says the wrong thing every once in a while, but if someone continually misuses language, there is a good chance that they may be a few crayons short of a full box. One specific example is if they get basic tenses wrong, like if they say, “I already eated lunch” or, “I forgotted my keys.” If you hear someone repeatedly say these things, there is a good chance that they more than likely spend their evenings at home laughing at their own flatulence.

It is hard to pick out someone’s intelligence based solely on what they look like. Everyone has their own style, no matter how smart they are. If I were to pin-point intelligence down to one thing, I would base it solely on the eyes. The eyes of the unintelligent usually seem glazed over, like they are watching TV even though they are talking to you. You all know the guy who looks at you with his mouth open, unresponsive to what you say because he comprehends very little of what is said. On the flip side, if the eyes seem to be focused, it usually means they are thinking and trying to work out a problem in their head.

I also believe that humor is a great indicator of somebody’s intelligence. Someone who is truly funny has razor-sharp wit and impeccable timing, saying the right thing at the right time. The unintelligent will usually say the same quote or joke over and over hoping to elicit some kind of laugh. I knew a guy in college who told the same joke to every group he met. For some reason, though nobody laughed in any of the first four groups, he assumed it would work in the fifth. This will also usually be the person who likes to talk about shows they’ve seen instead of a new or original idea. This may not always be the case, but the funnier a person is, the more likelihood they are indeed of sound mind.

One of the big problems with intelligence is that you can only know how smart you are based on how smart other people are. Intelligence is such a subjective thing that it is impossible to say whether somebody absolutely is or is not smart. I have just given my theory for a cursory determination of someone’s wits. Like I said before, these are just indicators; they are not absolutes in determining someone’s intelligence. I have known plenty of people who were funny but obviously not very smart, and vice versa. In the end, it’s up to you to figure out if you care about how smart someone is and to truly assess their aptitude after you have gotten to know them.

Unless they are a NASCAR and/ or Nickelback fan, because then you can just pretty much assume right away that they are straight-up dumb.

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I am a South Dakotan through and through. I was born in Pierre and moved to Sioux Falls when I was two. My mom went to law school with Tim Johnson and my parents’ insurance agent used to be Governor Mike Rounds. Also, I have seen every SD tourist trap from the Terry Redlin Museum to Al’s Oasis. But even with all of this South Dakota experience, I still have not found the distinguishable mark that makes someone from SD truly unique from other states.

I have thought about this for quite some time, and for some reason, I don’t think SD possesses any truly unique regional qualities. In Minnesota, they have a slight accent where they elongate the o’s and say things like, “You betcha.” Wisconsin is similar, and they use words like “bubbler” to refer to a drinking fountain and “time machine” for an ATM.

I can’t think of any accent or phrases that South Dakotans possess to make them uniquely “South Dakotan.” My friends from different places can be identified by strangers, but I have never been associated properly with my home-state. One of my roommates and I went to the same high school and it often surprises others to find out we are from the same city, not to mention the same state.

About the only thing that I am usually victim to when confirming where I’m from is that people know almost nothing about the Bob Barker state. Most can barely name the capital, and if they do say it, they usually add the fruity French accent. When people find out I’m from Sioux Falls, they ask where in Iowa that is. My mother once told me about a lawyer from New York who was concerned about his client moving to Sioux Falls because he didn’t think there were any doctors in the entire state.

Ironically, while in my home-state, I can see unique, but subtle, differences between those who live in different parts of SD. Those that live West River have usually adopted more of a Western lifestyle, and enjoy country music more than most who live East River. And there seems to be a slight rift between people from other cities toward those who live Sioux Falls. Once somebody from Yankton found out I went to Lincoln High, his first question was, “So you are gay, right?” After giving him a puzzled look, he said, “Well, 60 percent of people from Lincoln are gay and the other 50 percent wants to be.” This tells me two things: there is an apparent homosexual stigma that follows LHS, and people from Yankton can’t count.

I’m sure there are things that make us stand out as a state and the one thing that comes to my mind is every South Dakotan’s ability to name famous people from the state. Since there are so very few of them, we all seem to possess great knowledge of our celebrities. I would venture to say that 98 percent of South Dakotans can differentiate between Mary Hart, Jason Kubel, January Jones, Pat O’Brien, Tom Brokaw and Mike Miller. Just watch, if somebody ever says one of those names, a South Dakotan will tell you not only that the person in question is from SD, but will name the city from which they hail.

After living in Minnesota for nearly two years now, I get the impression that most people pay little to no attention to our state. We do, after all, receive very little national attention and I would say most prefer it that way. We are an unassuming bunch, usually trying not to bring attention to ourselves, unlike those brash Iowans. We are like the rest of the Midwest in that we will go out of our way to avoid confrontation. In fact, about the only time we will step into a fight is if somebody from North Dakota says their state is better. That’s when we call them liars and remind them that they are the United States’ equivalent to the Pittsburgh Pirates—usually forgotten and completely useless.

Maybe we should change our state motto from “Great Faces, Great Places” to “Thank God We’re Not North Dakota.”

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It is no secret that my favorite show is “The Office” on NBC. If I could watch that show for four hours a day, I probably would. Now that it is in syndication on TBS and various other channels, my dream is coming to fruition. Yesterday, as I was watching my third episode, I looked outside and realized what a gigantic waste of time it was. I thought about all the hours of television I had watched and purely wasted my time with. It made me ask this question: when did television become a priority?

I have begun to notice TV becoming a higher and higher priority, which is such an odd thing. People I know say they can’t do something because one of their shows is on. I can understand a couple of shows here and there, but some people’s lists are eight to twelve shows deep. When did people all of a sudden decide TV was their priority?

In high school, I was absolutely guilty of this offense. I would watch probably an average of five to six hours of TV a day. It is pathetic to know that I spent just about as much time watching TV as I did “learning” in school. What’s even more pathetic is that I really don’t remember what I watched, which means to me that I wasted my time like Antoine Walker squandered his fortune. It really does make me sick to my stomach to think about how much time I frittered away watching TV, gaining nothing but inches on my waistline.

I was finally able to break up my sedentary lifestyle by going away to college. I replaced my hours of watching “Home Improvement” and “Seinfeld” reruns with homework, ultimate Frisbee and general debauchery. When I say I reduced my watching, I mean I almost cut it out completely. I probably watched less than a half hour a day of TV. I was so caught up in my new life that TV was pushed somewhere between figuring out how to spin a pen on my finger and finishing the “Left Behind” series on my list of priorities.

I realized during my stint in college that TV should be an alternative, and nothing more. If you are the kind of person that will blow off going to a friend’s place to watch the season finale of “Glee”, then you need to: 1. Go buy a pair of cowboy boots just to salvage your manliness, and 2. Re-evaluate your priorities. TV is a distraction, like Facebook or the Minnesota Lynx. At least with Facebook you might come across a hugely embarrassing picture of one of your friends, which you can in turn show to other friends.

Like every traffic law, there are a few exceptions. I don’t think it’s terrible if you watch TV with a friend or significant other, at least you are spending time with another human being. Another exception is sports. I am a huge sports fan and will watch almost anything that involves the MLB or NBA. That being said, watching it is still tertiary. I will only resort to it if I can’t find anything else to do, or I’ve finally gotten sick of watching the “Bill O’Reilly Freakout” video on YouTube.

You may think at this point that I’m sitting on my soap box, telling you my farts don’t stink because I watch less TV than you. Well, my roommates and I can confirm that they do. I am merely pointing out that TV should never be a priority. There is so much to do in this world, why would you waste your time watching Charlie Sheen’s acting career die slowly and painfully on “Two and a Half Men?” You could be reading about Abraham Lincoln’s secret life as a vampire hunter or working on your secret Joe Mauer shrine in your closet. In closing, I have one piece of advice: TV is like Stephon Marbury—only go to it if your bench is completely depleted.

Unless you are talking about “America’s Funniest Home Videos,” then by all means, indulge.

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I believe it was the great philosopher Pink Floyd who once said “Money, so they say, is the root of all evil today.”

Before this year, I would have tended to disagree with Mr. Floyd because I never had any concept of money. Now that I’m making some actual money, more than minimum wage, I have started to realize how much I pine for money, and yet loathe it at the same time. I am addicted to money, and it’s a problem that can’t be solved, especially not by BP.

During college I was more than content to make $250 a month working for the school newspaper. For me, it was more than enough to pay for everything I wanted to do. But after I graduated and moved from Decorah, Iowa, to Minneapolis, I had no idea how expensive everything was. It truly was a culture shock for me, coming from paying for only fast food and beer to health insurance and rent. Let’s just say, the transition was not easy.

When moving to the Twin Cities, I found the first job that paid anything just to afford rent and other basic necessities. The longer I worked I kept finding things that I was convinced I absolutely needed. I told myself I couldn’t live without the likes of a gym membership, an iPod Touch and a LeBron James jersey (and trust me, I needed that LeBron jersey). I wasn’t living outside of my means, but as the money kept coming in I kept finding things I couldn’t live without.

I worked other jobs that would pay more but were equally unfulfilling. The work was mindless, easy and, more than anything, I didn’t care about it. If I didn’t do something right or missed a deadline, I was as apathetic as George W. Bush during Hurricane Katrina. I was essentially living the plot of “Office Space,” minus the taking money from the company and the hypnosis.

I continued on like this for about a year, just collecting money and spending it on the essentials. Then, last October, I was offered an unpaid internship as a writer with the Minnesota Timberwolves. I ignored my hopeless addiction and took the position without a moment’s hesitation. It was the most fun I’ve had working, basically doing the job that I had always dreamed about. For the first three months, it was a lot of fun, I didn’t worry about the money and just thoroughly enjoyed my job and analyzing why the Timberwolves were so bad.

But just like “LOST,” all good things must come to an end. I started scraping the bottom of my accounts and the itch for money returned in a furious, inflamed way. For the last two months of the season, I was overly concerned with how broke I was, so much so that it was hard for me to have fun at my job and enjoy the moment.

I could have continued on with the Wolves after my internship in another unpaid way, but my addiction won over my interest. I am now working a job I know I don’t have a future in but making money.

This proves, that in the end, money will usually win over happiness, and that is a scary thought. I’m in no way saying that you can’t have both, but in my case, that’s not the situation. Also, I don’t want to give the impression that I am unhappy with my life, because I am not. I am quite content, and will continue to be so as long as LeBron does not go to the New York Knicks.

So the ultimate solution is to either find a job that keeps my interest and gives me meaning and in turn absolute happiness, or win the lottery. I’m hoping for the latter.

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For those that have been reading my columns, you can usually tell that I am somewhat of a pessimist.

It’s hard not to be the way the world is headed. But lately, I have been a bit more optimistic. This really is the greatest time of the year, the weather is beautiful, the Minnesota Twins and LeBron James are dominating, and it turns out that Glenn Beck has lost a third of his audience since January. And, just when I thought it was too good to be true, I saw a Kentucky Fried Chicken commercial advertising the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen – the Double Down.

For those of you that don’t know what this monstrosity consists of, all you need to know is that within it’s context foretells the end of civilization. It is a “sandwich” in the loosest sense of the term. The bread is not bread, but two pieces of fried chicken, and meshed in between is bacon, mayonnaise and $10,000 worth of medical bills. But to be fair, for those health nuts out there, you can get the two pieces of chicken grilled.

I have seen plenty of disgusting looking foods advertised on television throughout the years, but this one stuck in my mind. KFC has finally taken the leap from providing fast food to actually socially injurious the country. We all know that this thing is disgustingly unhealthy and we shouldn’t eat it, but we will consume it like Rush Limbaugh downs bottles of Oxycodone.

Basically, the Double Down epitomizes the United State’s inability to control our appetite. Most Americans eat even when we are not hungry; food is just so abundant that we feel like we need to eat even when it is detrimental. My roommate, who is a server, actually informed me of a regular customer who lets their young, already obese daughter eat until she literally throws up. If this obese little girl is representative of the rest of the country, then, like the Tea Party, we are truly doomed.

The Food and Drug Administration should actually try to regulate who can and cannot eat the Double Down. First, in order to devour this thing, you should have a doctor’s note saying that you are allowed to eat it. And before you are even allowed to eat it, KFC should make the customer ride on a bike for a half hour, which will in turn power the building, thus saving energy and possibly some poor obese person’s life.

Next, since obesity is such a problem, you should have to mark this on your insurance. So, it should say if you are smoker, a drinker, and a regular customer of KFC. I should not have pay the same rate as someone who literally ingests fat without thinking twice about it. KFC should offer the Double Down as a buy one get one free, as in buy one monster sandwich, and get a free angiogram. They could probably in turn sell the lard pulled from people’s arteries to make even more money.

You may think that I am a bit harsh on KFC, but I don’t think I’m harsh enough. The Double Down represents all that is wrong with America, and that is our inability to moderate what we consume in any capacity. Maybe it is just a perverted part of manifest destiny to expand the human waistline, but it leaves a sickening feeling in my gut. Hopefully, the double down will the go the way of New Coke, pogs, or Brendan Frasiers acting career and I won’t have to worry about it too much longer.

Maybe they will come out with the salad Double Down, two pieces of spinach, and in between that is fish oil, carrots and a gym membership.

Until then, I will just try to avoid KFC and eat healthy, such as Taco Bell.

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This week marks two very important events. The first, of course, being that Target Field will officially open its doors for the Minnesota Twins and their fans. The other event is the 24th anniversary of my birth.

In years past, I would be filled with anticipation for at least a month before my big day. But as I get older, the luster of my birthday seems to be lacking. If I could graph it, the line would be similar to that of former President George W. Bush’s approval ratings, a steady decline.

I’m sure anybody who has gotten older has felt this way. When you were younger, there was no better time of year than your birthday.  It was the one instance when you could do no wrong. In elementary school, the teachers would give you special treats and you had preferential treatment the entire day. Basically, you were given diplomatic immunity because it was your birthday.

For a month, before my birthday, I told my mom all the things that I wanted. One year it was Ninja Turtles, the next it was a first edition of “Origin of Species,” and then X-Men. You didn’t receive everything you wanted, because the list was of toys was endless. I never did get the Millennium Falcon, but I doubt it would have fit in our garage.

Yes, all of these things are what make birthdays great, but what really puts it together is your state of mind. You are constantly on a mental high from the praise and attention being lavished upon you. The first 12 years are just great birthdays, where nothing could go wrong.

Then, as the years pass, your birthday seems to mean less and less. In your teens you still ask for gifts that are wholly unnecessary, such video games, CDs or a light up shift knob. But the older you get the gifts become more and more utilitarian. They have to serve some kind of purpose, otherwise what is the point? For my birthday this year I asked for a new car battery. How fun.

Maybe it is because the birthdays seem less new each year. I have a feeling it’s like watching a pretty decent movie over and over, such as “The Big Lebowski.” It’s funny the first 12 times, but after that, you know all about it and just end up looking for something else.

There are of course exceptions, as there are to every rule. Your 18th and especially 21st birthdays are milestones that you look forward to fervently. After those two have passed, then you have little to look forward to, merely just another notch on the calendar to mark that your birthday came and went.

You may think I’m depressed about turning the ripe old age of 24, but I’m not. There are still benefits for your birthday after being 21. People will pay for things on your special day, such as drinks and dessert. I’m merely pointing out that as you get older you lose a certain zeal for your birthday. Maybe if we celebrated once every four years the same kind of excitement we had could be restored.

But then again, it’s rare when you get people to buy you drinks for no reason.

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It’s that time of year when the sun has finally decided to come out of hibernation, the snow melts faster than American dollar under the Bush administration and the infectious disease known as March Madness spreads like chicken pox in a daycare.

This is the time of the year when people feigns interest in a sporting event, even though most probably didn’t know how many As were in NCAA before the brackets came out. I call this phenomenon, the “Pseudo Olympic Intelligence Syndrome” or POIS.

There are certain events that seem to garner interest from the general populous —March Madness, the Olympics and LOST. If you watch closely, people who usually do not know anything about the sports highlighted in the Olympics or college basketball will all of a sudden become experts. This is where POIS comes in, the pseudo knowledge of something they knew nothing about a week ago.

Your friends will all suddenly be spouting phrases such as “I like Purdue because of their strong back court” or “Kentucky’s pick and pop is unstoppable.” These things might be true, but, more than likely, they are just rephrasing things they literally heard minutes ago on TV. These people pretend that they are the most knowledgeable about the sport.

It’s named after the Olympics because that is when it is most prevalent. We will be watching a certain event and everybody will chime in with their own comment. “You see, the triple axle is key for the U.S. Otherwise, their technical score will be too low.”

One of my favorite POIS moments is when people talk about curling. “No, this is good, they have two stones in the house but we have the hammer.” All of a sudden a sport that only Canadians and certain members of the Mormon faith follow has penetrated their basic knowledge.

This curling comprehension lasts for only as long as the particular sporting event.If I were to ask any Timmy or Tammy Scumbag about curling, they would normally say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about” and “Go take a shower.” Just like that, their awareness for the sport is gone faster than Ryan Leaf’s NFL career.

Now, I’m in no way saying this is annoying, because I too partake in it without noticing. I will regurgitate information I hear and pass it off as my own about something I would normally care less about than a show on Lifetime. More than not, it is just an interesting phenomenon to witness. In almost no other aspect of life do you see people garner as much familiarity about something so quickly and then just discard it like it was a Creed CD. It’s not like we go out of our way to learn aspects about the Kyoto Protocol, but we will memorize the starting lineups for the women’s Olympic ice hockey team.

So, as long as your fever persists with March Madness, keep a watchful eye for POIS. The most obvious symptoms of POIS are blathering, diarrhea of the mouth, and people that start sentences with the words “I guarantee this team will win because …” The best cure is to let them talk, and the syndrome will be gone by April 6th.

But watch for it again in June when the World Cup starts, because all of a sudden America will care about soccer like it were Tiger Wood’s personal life, a sure sign you will see POIS in its finest.

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Poop.

Yes, I just laughed at that. There doesn’t seem to be a time when that wasn’t funny. Come on, it has to be one of the greatest words in the English language, maybe besides fartknocker or dweeb.

What does this all suggest? Well, I’m no math major, but I think it indicates that I am very immature. When I say immature, I mean I will laugh at just about anything that is physical or involves bodily fluids.

Lately, thanks mostly to “The Office,” my friends and I have been using the phrase “That’s what she said.” Even after nearly three months of saying it at least 10 times every day, it still has not lost its luster.

I am so immature that I laugh at funny names. Once, I was watching some political commentary with Dick Armey. Again, Dick Armey. What’s not funny about that?

I admit to being immature, but does that mean there is something wrong with it? I say no, but there seems to be a stigma against immaturity.

The stigma is that if you are immature, you are just really weird and have a problem interacting socially. It’s kind of like being an avid player of Dungeons and Dragons, only with a lot less talk of mystical beings and much more interaction with the opposite sex.

Why does there have to be such a stigma? So what if I laugh at the occasional fart or discuss things that could put me on the women’s rights hit list? All I can say is this: I’m loving life.

Also, I don’t think this stigma is accurate. I too can laugh at sophisticated jokes, such as how Neville Chamberlain couldn’t appease a fat kid in a cupcake store or that Glen Beck is more hypocritical than Adolph Hitler’s Warsaw Pact with Joseph Stalin (sorry about all the World War II references). But I’d rather laugh at jokes from the movies “Superbad,” “The Big Lebowski,” and “Brokeback Mountain.”

In fact, I would go as far to argue that being immature is actually better for you. I imagine I laugh more than most people, and there have been numerous studies on the health benefits of laughing as a stress reducer. So, while you may be suffering from a heart attack at the age of 50 due to the stress, I’ll be laughing at The Simpsons and healthier than ever.

For those of you who think you are “better” than me because you don’t laugh at “poop,” you are not having as much fun as I am. My friends and I can make almost any situation hilarious, especially tax returns.

People who see themselves as “mature” are embarrassed to be with people who are immature. But the opposite happens as well. My friends and I are embarrassed to be with people who act hoity-toity and stuck up. I believe the scientific term for these people is “d-bags.”

To those people: good luck with your life, because I’m having more fun than Darryl Strawberry in Colombia. Don’t look down on me because I’m laughing at funny noises. Look down on yourself for taking life too seriously. Life is hard. You don’t have to make it harder.

That’s what she said.

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There are a lot of things that have come to baffle me in this world.

Just trying to understand the basic elements of time travel has left me buffaloed, and sometimes drooling in comprehension. The enjoyment of NASCAR is a concept that eludes me like a win for the New Jersey Nets (How can watching a car go in a circle for three hours be fun?). Also, I mightily struggle to understand how people can be so bad with cell phones.

Thinking about how terrible some people are with phones makes me sick to my stomach. You know the people I’m talking about. The people who you call and won’t get back to you, until after several calls they finally say, in a dumbfounded way, “oh, you called?” Now, unless you have a Zach Morris phone there is no reason for you to not call back, especially after multiple calls. If somebody has called two or three times, you should at least try to call him or her within the next day. Unless it’s somebody you don’t like, then just send him or her a Facebook message.

Oh, but there are lots of other dumb cell phone users in this world.

Another rule I often see broken are the unnecessarily long voicemail introductions. The most annoying are the people who have not set up their voicemail box, so that when you leave them a message you get their phone number, only very elongated.

Then, of course, there are those that have set up a very long message where they divulge too much information. For example: “You have reached Richard Fore, I am currently away from my phone because either I am away or I was busy. I will try to get back to you as soon as I can, so if you will please leave your name, number, address, blood type and your favorite member of the Beatles I’ll get back to you when I can. Thanks.”

Clearly, I exaggerated, but do you really think it’s necessary to tell me you are away from your phone? If you don’t pick up, it’s pretty obvious that you are not.

The rules of texting are tricky because just about anything can be said in a text. My personal favorites are when my friends send me an obscene or inappropriate remark out of the clear blue. But sometimes people forget that when you get a text, it is information that that can be easily transferred. Seriously.

Though texting is about as frivolous as the actual information on Fox News, there are still things that are pointlessly texted. If you are texting with two words or less, then it is a waste. Example:

Person 1: “Yo bro, do you want to see Princess and the Frog at 8?”

Person 2: “Hell yeah, that movie looks sick.”

Person 1: “Great, I’ll meet you there”

Person 2: “:)”

The last text was just a waste of time for me to open the phone. If you’re not actually purveying any useful information then it is as worthless as Rasheed Wallace on the Celtics.

Lastly, people with blue tooth headsets are pretty much the scum of the earth. Yes, I can see that you have a headset and that you know how to use it, but, for the love of god, take it off if you’re not using it. You may think you look like a regular old James Dean, but in actuality you look like Paul Begala. Only use it if you need to, otherwise I’m just going to assume you are what the government might consider “an idiot.”

This column was not written for enjoyment, but more than anything it was written as an educational tool. If you are one of the people that I have offended, then you should use this as a vulnerary tool in order to be a functioning member of the cell phone society.

Unless you’re my parents or born in the early 1950s; then there’s nothing I can do for you.

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