I just don’t know

What am I supposed to write about anymore? I’m flustered, which must be apparent because everyone around me is trying to offer help.

A&E brain trust Chris Whipple (“I get all of the events for Calendar”) suggests that I write about how Heather Mitts is really hot.

The angle would be that Amanda Beard is also really hot, and I could compare the two. That discussion led to my surly, haggard friend, “The Captain,” analyzing Michelle Wie’s potential as a woman. Unfortunately, I can’t legally reproduce that here because she can’t legally reproduce yet. Get it? Eh?

“Jersey-chasing isn’t just for ladies anymore,” Whipple poignantly adds. And with some intent, I’m sure.

Not exactly a promising lead, anyway. There just aren’t many big-time Utah stories lately as the semester wraps up.

A portion of the football team is in spring practices, running a playbook that’s more confusing than a Rubix Cube on muscle relaxants. How can I know what to make of an intra-squad scrimmage? Is the defense sweet, or does the offense suck? Or do they both suck but in different proportions? Help me.

The Alex Smith/Andrew Bogut draft projections already get plenty of coverage, and I don’t have any inside information to add, other than the indisputable fact that Bogut used to get a lot of french fries at the Heritage Center his freshman year.

Captain just chimed in that he’s upset about his association with the earlier Michelle Wie reference. I told him he was on the record and asked whether he wanted to be off the record from now on. “No,” he says, “but you’re garbage.”

With that sentiment I’ve decided to go play golf while continuing to think of ramblings at the course. I have the Kurt Warner mentality: God wants me to golf.

I was wrong. God wanted Captain to kick my ass. I got to play three holes at the U course over about a fortnight before I had to come running back here to finish this up. Thanks a lot, readers.

I didn’t hit a single good shot. How many times do I have to play golf before I figure out whether I really hate it or not? I know one thing: Par should be what the average golfer shoots after a couple beers or what Tiger Woods would shoot on acid. 72? Where are we? Japan?

To cheer up after that debacle, I look at Mark Stein’s “Power Rankings” for the second time today and see the Nuggets at No. 1 because “nobody wants to play them in the first round of the playoffs.” The day Andre Miller is the leader of a championship team is the day Dikembe Mutombo wins a spelling bee.

Jermaine O’Neal adds to the inevitable daily NBA comedy, suggesting that David Stern is a racist for wanting to raise the age limit for eligibility to 20. He justifies his claim by pointing out, “You don’t hear about [age limits] in baseball or hockey.” Right, just in black people sports like basketball. Damned racists.

At Chicagosports.com, I gasp at the headline, “Sosa: ‘I won’t make it past 40,'” imagining that a violent sneezing fit has him terminal. Whew, he’s actually just retiring before 40-or when his face explodes, whichever comes first.

It seems he doesn’t care about chasing 700 anymore, right after going before Congress and spending months watching Barry Bonds getting skewered by the national press. Even though he appears to have forgotten how to speak English, he’s still keen enough to know that those once-golden numbers have lost their luster and will only tarnish his legacy.

Which is not, contrary to popular belief, what Sammy Sosa actually tries to do.

Hey, wow, that last bit was kind of like a column idea…that I used five days ago. I could expand, but I’m spent after golf.

What? Summer? Did I hear somebody say summer?

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