I woke up this morning to a CNN report that Federal Judge James Whittemore ruled that Terri Schiavo's feeding tube should remain removed from her body. Terri Schiavo has lived in a vegetative state for the last fifteen years after she suffered brain damage from a suspected eating disorder. She has no living will and her husband has fought for years to legally end her life. Her parents, however, feel that there exists a chance of recovery for her daughter even if it is remote.

I shouldn't even comment on this sad issue, and I had planned not to. That was, however, until I heard a statement from a political scumbag that seemed so disgusting that I could sit back no longer. The comment comes from House of Representatives Majority Leader Tom DeLay. Mr. Delay, after flying in from vacation to pass emergency legislation to keep the feeding tube attached, spoke publicly to reporters questioning the manhood of Schiavo's husband Michael. Whaaaat? Questioning the "manhood" of the guy who sits bedside of his sick wife for fifteen years, whose family life is a waking nightmare everyday, and has to ask courtroom after courtroom to please end the pain and suffering of the women he married? Hey Tom, you were on vacation. Mr. Schiavo was in a hospital room. You should be spending your free time figuring out how to save lives through universal health care and prescription medication prices. Dude, you do not bring up "manhood" issues in these cases. You can comment on "sanctity of life" matters. That's fair game. But you don't act like a seventeen-year-old talking trash about his old girlfriend's new lover. Why don't you just go into a child's hospital and tell the cancer kids to "toughen up, will ya?"

Well, I'm not going to let Tom Delay question the manhood of Mr. Schiavo. I'm biting back. Hey Tom, I went online and saw pictures of your wife. Guess what? I think they should maybe remove her feeding tube because she certainly hasn't been eating salads or working out on a Bowflex lately. Seriously, Tom, I have two words for you to suggest to her: Slim Fast. I think for the last twenty years she's had a feeding tube that goes from her fat ass directly into a bag of Cheetos and a two-liter of warm Diet Coke. When can we have the emergency legislation signed to remove that tube? I'd fly in from vacation to vote on that because she's not looking good. What kind of man lets his wife look like that in family photos?

Now that's how you question someone's manhood, Tom.

Speaking of feeding tubes: I'd like make a living will right now, so my family never has to deal with the Tom DeLay's of the world if I ever become a piss and shit factory hooked up to a cold machine. I, Mark Lindquist, of sound mind and body, hereby wish the following:

1. If I'm ever on life support with less than a 25% chance of recovery, please pull the plug on my ass. Turn the lights down, light a freaking candle, pour some cheap whiskey on my chest, maybe play Smog's "Dress Sexy at My Funeral" song in the background, and PULL THAT PLUG WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE.

2. If you ever catch me riding the bus to the mall, wearing pink sweatpants, and talking to myself about an imaginary puppy named Mittens, PULL THAT PLUG WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE.

3. If I am ever found alone at home listening to the band Styx or watching NASCAR, don't worry about a plug, just shoot me in the head and leave me there.
This is my legal living will and ask all parties to please respect my above mentioned wishes.

Note: Tom DeLay's wife is not incredibly overweight and does good work for the foster kids all over the country. Sorry.

© Mark Lindquist

"There is an important difference between the words 'loser' and 'outlaw.' One is passive and the other is active, and the main reason the [outlaws] are such good copy is that they are acting out the day-dreams of millions of losers." - Hunter S. Thompson, 1966.

Eight days ago, I received my Sports Illustrated swim suit issue. And I threw it away, again, for about the seventh year in a row. I have finally concluded that for a true fan of gaming, sex and sports do not mix. There may exist a competitive nature to sex, but I have come to realize that the TRUE fanatic finds nothing sexy about sports.

My father gave me my first Sports Illustrated in 1976. That's almost thirty years ago. Trust me when I tell you that I can read the best sports writing magazine from cover to cover in one sitting. And it's not because it reads like People, or Highlights, or Rolling Stone. No, almost every Sports Illustrated column, whether you harbor a love for games or not, is as well if not better written than any New Yorker piece: meticulous, in giving good journalism and story; and at its best, a masterpiece in wordsmanship. Part of the fun of covering sports rests in that the actual game has no meaning, but that competition reveals insight into the most human elements of our existence from Muhammad Ali to Lance Armstrong to wheel chair basketball. For that, I love sports. Reading Sports Illustrated heightened that feeling on a weekly basis since my father turned me on to it.

But once a year, for over two decades, the swim suit issue comes out. And I hate it. I hate it for three reasons. One, it objectifies women. Recently, Sports Illustrated did a documentary on the swimsuit edition and concluded that it helped the feminist cause because it employed women in a male dominated genre. Sick. That's like saying Germany in the 1940's helped the Jewish cause because it gave them a lot of P.R.

The second reason I don't like the swim suit edition is that has led to the dumbification of sports. From crappy Super Bowl halftime entertainment to pre-game over construed banter, I blame the swimsuit edition. It gave television producers the idea that the average sports fan wanted anything other than insight to the game. So you end up with Janet Jackson exposing fake breasts (2004), midgets doing hip-hop at NBA All-Star Games (2005), and skanks dressed like Daisy Duke giving stadium weather reports for NFL pre-game shows (2002-present). Even last year's summer Olympics treated beach volleyball like some late night soft porn. Follow my logic, it goes back to the best source for sports journalism pimping and airbrushing anorexic women in whore costumes, yearly, to satisfy some false precept that fans need glossy sex to get the fix. Last year, Fox Sports commentator, Joe Buck, complained on national television that Randy Moss's antics on the field were obscene. And yet, less than two hours before that broadcast, Fox Sports strutted out a filthy bulimic whore dressed in cut-off biker shorts to give the weather report from Lambeau Field. That's obscene to me.

Which brings me to the third and final reason I hate the swim suit issue. I just want my sports and sex separated. Feminist issues, dumbification of sports; blah, blah, blah...I just don't want to mix the two. I reserve my sports-time for game time. And I reserve my sex time for Tuesdays, late night, on Showtime Channel. Or whatever. Yeah, I like watching women's soccer during the World Cup. Guess what? I don't watch it to jerk-off. I know there are women that love watching Kevin Garnett hoop, but I don't think they watch it with nipple clamps on.

So do me a favor sports fans; boycott the swim suit issue, and we'll all watch Deep Throat or Behind The Green Door after the game is over.

© Mark Lindquist