It begins in the wee, quiet hours. You come awake, as if gently tapped on the shoulder. A whisper? Someone there? A muffled sound? Oh, well, maybe a dream. Deep breath, let the languor settle back in like a gossamer veil. But something is there, nagging. What is it? There, under the sternum, a dull ache, deep. Damn. Probably gas. Change position. No, roll over. No, roll back. Nope, getting worse. Much worse. Better walk it off. That’s a mistake. Better sit up straight. It’s bound to ease off, bound to, bound to, bound to . . . . . no, it intensifies, accelerates. . . . surely, it won’t. . . can’t get any wor. . .dear God. Stagger back to the bedroom, collapse in terror. Call 911. Panic city. This has to be the end. Tell the kids. . . tell the kids. . . remember. . . cremated. . . sorry . . . for . . . The EMS people ask questions, take vitals. Describe the pain? Mel. . . uh. . . uh. . . Gibson. . . Braveheart. . . drawn. . . quartered. . . only his. . . didn’t last. . . this. . . long. But this is . . .unnatural. Through clenched eyes, you peer down past heaving chest to convulsing abdomen — anticipating the horror of an alien raptor fetus erupting through your flesh. That’s silly. Get hold of yourself. At least die with dignity. The truth is you’ve been poisoned. More like arsenic. Blanche Moore has escaped from prison and she broke in to your house because you favor the death penalty. In the back of the meat wagon, it gets worse. Cold and stark. Like a big, square coffin. No shot, no pill, no oxygen. Bumping along through deserted, snow-covered streets. Why are they going so slow, Gertrude? THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. THIS IS MY LIFE.

Pain, they say, is relative. I guess that means pain is strictly in the mind of the beholder. Maybe so. Maybe a twinge for one person is agony for another. Some will say it depends on where it hurts. On the duration of anguish as well as the level. Are migraines the worst? What about back pain that slams you to the ground? To be fair, we should separate natural pain from the inflicted kind. For instance, as grueling as natural childbearing must be, it certainly can’t rank on the misery meter with torture. Thrown on the rack, nailed to a cross, boiled alive — now, these are inventions designed to make a body flinch. But who is in a position to rank pain anyway? Nobody. Hearsay is useless. Until a single individual experiences every method and manner of suffering and scientifically records the measurements, the best we can do is speculate on the hierarchy of pain. Even so, you submit the candidate above for the top ten. A double hit of acute pancreatitis and acute cholecystitis. Life threatening? Theoretically, yes. The most excruciating physical pain this side of the dentist’s office? It’s all relative. But a little advice. If there’s something out there more torturous, keep a 357 magnum handy.

So you think “the dumbing-down of America” is just a spiteful theory promulgated by the over-the-hill-gang whining about the “good old days.” Scusa me, mon ami, the decline is a fact, as plain as a wart on a bayou toad. The public education system has been on a forced suicide march since the 70’s and the graduates of that era are the parents and teachers of today. Scary. Now our children learn about life and love and language from television, the greatest addictive narcotic of them all. Not only does the boob tube dull the mind but it also aims its cultural bilge at the lowest common denominator. It broadcasts rap that masquerades as music. It glorifies violence, vulgarity and vileness like a sleazy drug dealer. It parades talking heads who don’t know the difference between “good” and “well,” “he” and “him,” and “lie” and “lay,” trotting them out as poster children of our degraded language. At the halls of government, the decay is even more pronounced. Everybody knows, generally speaking, that politicians are crooks and liars at heart; but we’re never prepared for their outright mediocrity. Hold on, you say; all these “dumbing-down” assertions are just opinions, easily debated. So it’s irrefutable proof you want. Simply witness the meteoric rise of male (and female) potency drugs. Not satisfied with mental corrosion, we’ve decided to “dumb-down” the physical body as well. What surfaced as a legitimate drug for clinical erectile dysfunction, aimed at the geriatric set, has emerged as a universal sexual crutch. In fact, world class athletes were the first pitchmen, macho types who insinuated that being manly meant gulping down Viagra. Of course, we can understand their infatuation, given their devotion to performance enhancing drugs. The glamorous models were next, leering at us smugly and lustfully, as if recently gratified. What’s it all mean? From now on, there’s no need for natural chemistry among the sexes. Biological urges are passe. Honest sexual attraction? It’s redundant, baby. Forget wasting your time and energy looking desirable or being seductive. Just pop a Propecia or Levitra. Put it in automatic drive and even Hillary might pass muster. Mmm, likely not. Too bad these hot-to-trot pills came along so late. They could have saved a lot of time at the workplace of yesteryear when making whoopee in the coat closet was an art form. And, without question, these sex potions will revolutionize the porn industry by extending the, uh, careers of overworked actors. Ah, well, why bother to have to think or feel. Either one is such a hassle. Better just lay down, sleep real good and dream of someone special and what her and I could do with a case of Cialis.

There are so many things wrong with the world, it’s hard to know where to begin. War, corruption, politicians, ignorance and pestilence occupy a lot of our attention, and deservedly so. But, quietly, almost insidiously, a far greater risk threatens our way of life. In magnificent stadiums all across the land, grown men are wearing pajama bottoms. Baseball — America’s Glorious Pastime — has become the haven for a bunch of sloppy, rumpled, bedraggled bush leaguers. With notable exceptions, baseball players suffer from arrested development, clinging to their T-Ball days, when Mommy and Daddy sat behind the schoolyard batting cages and cursed at the volunteer coaches and officials. Their sponsored uniforms often didn’t fit. The skinny kids ran around in sacks. Fat kids in what looked like spandex. But they loved them and wore them everywhere — often to bed. And if Mommy didn’t allow that sort of thing, why, she went out and bought jammies that looked just like them. Now, generations later, we have a storied game occupied by adult members of the Bad News Bears. Disturbingly, this is baseball. You might have expected other sports to dumb themselves down, and they have. But this is our “grand old game,” so steeped in its detailed lore, so exacting in its composition. Perhaps the Pajama Game is a sign of the times. Instead of inspiring their progeny to covet maturity and choose tasteful behavior, parents commit role reversal and behave more like adolescents every day. Male crotches, once located in the vicinity of the groin, now reside closer to the knees. Hairy butt cracks have become enchanting. Evidently, no one has clued-in 99% of women over 14, that an abdomen ain’t automatically sexy. You can add to this bad taste the growing array of piercings and tattoos, and begin to understand why God had issues with A&E. But all of this human decline pales in comparison to the shabby treatment of baseball by the likes of Clemens, Jeter, Bonds, A-Rod and a host of other superslobs. What a joy it was to see a true player — a throwback professional — one Alfonso Soriano — jack one out off Clemens in the recent All-Star game. He struck a blow, not just for himself, but for the sanctity of baseball. While this authentic baseball player trotted around the bases, he made his grown teammates look silly in their jammies.