This is an admittedly random thought, but has anyone else ever considered how odd it is that we humans take such great pleasure in animating the inanimate?

For example, superheroes. They don’t exist. Really, they don’t. They’re completely made up, and no matter how desperately you’d love to fly over the Grand Canyon and bend metal with your mind and run from here to Bethesda in two seconds, it’s not going to happen. So why such excitement when, say, a new Batman flick hits theatres? Sure, the pure enjoyment of a film is a factor. But what about the Batman Happy Meals? And the Batman T-shirts? And Frosted Flakes paying Warner, oh, $10 million to place Batman on the cover of boxes of cereal? How to explain such a thing?

Last month, GQ put Bruno on its cover, and ran an interview of Bruno, the character. But, in real life, there is no Bruno. And the movie supposedly sucks. So what gives?

My opinion: Life is boring. Not all of it. But a lot. So we try and fill the voids best we can. If it ends up being semi-inane, well, no biggie. Such is life …

I’ve been a journalist for 15 years now. If one were to ask me which stories stand out, I’d name three:

1. When I was 23, The Tennessean asked me to profile a Nashville couple, Warren and Lynn Thompson. She was in her mid-40s and dying of cancer. To honor her memory, the two were working on a garden together. It was haunting stuff (I’ll always remember sitting next to Lynn and asking her whether she feared death. It was around the time that Forrest Gump had just come out, and she had seen the film with a friend. During the scene when Jenny dies, the friend apologized to Lynn. “Oh, you don’t need to apologize,” Lynn said. “I’m not afraid of dying. I’m just sad about all the things I’ll miss. My children getting married, and having their own children.” It was very profound. And, just today, I looked up Warren and Lynn’s children on Facebook. They’re married. With kids.), and while the finished product won’t go down as one of my best, I treasure the experience. As well as the gratitude from Lynn and Warren. Why, when Lynn died after a long and courageous battle, Warren asked me to write her obituary. I was blown away (if I can dig up this clip, I’ll try and scan it one day).

2. In the days following 9/11/2001, I profiled Tyler Ugolyn, one of the victims. I’ve remained close with his family—a relationship I cherish.

3. In the early months of 1998, I was 26 and trying to rise from fact checking at Sports Illustrated. During my time at The Tennessean, I’d learned of the plight of Billy Ray Collins, Jr., a local middleweight boxer whose bright future was derailed in 1983. That’s when, on the undercard of the Roberto Duran-Davey Moore bout at Madison Square Garden, he faced an obscure journeyman named Luis Resto. Collins was supposed to have his way with Resto. Instead, the Nashville native was battered and battered and battered. Afterward, when Billy’s father (and trainer) reached out to shake Resto’s hand, he felt his glove and noticed all the padding had been removed.

Collins, who was nearly blinded by the savage beating, was done as a fighter. Shortly thereafter, he died in a car accident. His father believes it was suicide. Others aren’t so sure.

Anyhow, I wasn’t a big enough gun at Sports Illustrated to have the story assigned to me, and I feared that, had I pitched it, some editor would have swiped it from me and given it to a Gary Smith or Steve Rushin. Hence, I paid my own way to Nashville and reported the whole thing myself.

I will never—never, ever, ever, ever, ever—forget sitting in Billy Sr.’s ramshackle house, listening to his racist banter as he sucked from a cigarette, watching the tapes of his son fight. It was the most depressing assignment ever, yet a riveting story that probably took my reporting to a new level. I still remember getting off an airplane in San Diego, walking through the airport and spotting the new SI in a magazine store. It was the issue with Kevin Gogan on the cover, and when I saw my Billy Collins story in print, I nearly cried.

•••

I bring this up because on the night of August 1, HBO is premiering its new documentary, Assault In The Ring. I haven’t seen it yet, but the story alone makes it worth watching. The various characters are tragic and fascinating; the impact of that bout still profound.

David Ortiz used performance enhancers!

I am shocked.

Shocked!

SHOCKED!

SHOCKED!!!!!!

(Are you?)

Am in the deepest of deep south. Ate at a Cracker Barrel tonight. Had the catfish, with a side of carrots. My waitress was named Jennifer. She’s 27—told me her husband nearly died in a car accident a while back, and that she’s working extra shifts to make up for lost income. As soon as she said that, I decided I’d give a huge tip.

Then she started talking.

Jennifer visited Los Angeles a few years ago, but as soon as she heard someone speaking Spanish—”I told my husband I wanted to go home. In America, we have one language. Use it!”

Jennifer likes the black people. “If they work hard and take care of their families, I have no problem with them. Look, my manager is black, and I love him to death.”

Jennifer doesn’t love interracial dating. “It ain’t right. I’m not one to yell at other people. But I’d never do it. There’s a waitress who works here who had sex with a black guy, and now she has a mixed baby. Everybody looks at her.”

Jennifer thinks Sarah Palin is peaches. “The way she carries a gun—I love it! But Obama is just stupid. That man clearly is not smart. He’s terrible.”

Is 7% too much?

Driving through the South these past few days, I’ve been listening to an ungodly amount of AM radio. Sadly, that means I’m getting one of two things:

A. Jeee-SUS! (For the record, nothing against Jesus. But even my most devout Christian friends acknowledge the inanity of AM religious radio).

B. Sports talk.

Boy, do I hate sports talk. Not all of it. But most. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Some yahoo who’s never even been in a locker room screaming at the top of his lungs about chemistry and passion and teamwork and how the Saints should trade their fourth-round pick to the Patriots for Tom Brady, Randy Moss and Wes Welker.

Anyhow, the topic of late has been, of course, Michael Vick, and how terrible it was that, in his statement of the other day, he failed to apologize.

My question: Who is Michael Vick supposed to apologize to? The fans? The talk radio yahoos? The NFL? Al Toon and Jojo Townsell?

For God’s sake, the guy spent 23 months in prison. That’s some serious time. A real punishment. Enough. I’ll write what I’m required by law to write here—I’m disgusted by the dog fighting, and what he did was horrible—but the man has paid his dues. And furthermore, who are any of us to judge and condemn and condemn and condemn another’s sins? You, the guy cheating on his wife with the local bus driver? You, the guy who steals 10 cents off every dollar at your job? You, the guy who swipes two morning newspapers from the vending machine? You, the guy who told your son to shut up when he wanted a second helping of pudding? You, the guy who drinks four beers before driving home every night? You, the guy who ignores your wife? You, the guy who pinched your executive assistant’s rear?

I respect PETA, and I admire their work. But if they show up at every Vick game with signs and chants, I’ll show up at every PETA rally at every Vick game with signs and chants.

Let the man be.

For some reason I find myself here in room 206 of the Sleep Inn, watching The Bachelorette. Jillian has made her choice, and it’s … Ed.

Truthfully, I have no idea who Jillian is. I Googled her 10 seconds ago. I don’t know who Ed is, either, but something tells me I’ll find out shortly after the break.

I could use this space to offer up the common spewings: What a stupid show. Who are these morons? Who in the world watches this dung? Does The Bachelorette represent what we’ve become as a people?

Instead, however, I’ll state what, without question, millions of American men are thinking: Uh … Jillian looks like a woman I could date.

That’s not really a compliment. She’s certainly not ugly. But usually, this show features legitimate, Grade-A hotties; the type of women who never even glanced my way back in college. But Jillian, literally, looks like a gal I hooked up with in the basement of Pi Lambda Phi at the ol’ U of Delaware.

One other point: What sort of fool gets engaged off of a reality show? I mean, I’ve been married for seven years. I know my wife’s likes, dislikes, quirks, annoyances, loves, passions, food choices, food allergies, political leanings, sports leanings. I know what puts her in a good mood and a bad mood; when she needs to be alone and when she needs to be comforted. And marriage is still work.

So … this. Just inane.

But engaging TV.

PS: Just found out who Ed is. He likes bad T-shirts and average-looking chicks. Word.

Am sitting in room 203 of a Best Western, about to go to bed after a thrilling night at the nearby Dollar Tree.

I’ve received a ton of comments, RE: my Tim Tebow post. I’d say it’s pretty split—50% agree with my take, 50% think I’m an anti-Christian hater.

The correct answer: Hmm … not sure.

In all seriousness, I’d like to elaborate a bit on what I wrote. First, I do appreciate all the feedback, especially from those who don’t agree. The comments were, mostly, very respectful and well-stated.

That said, after reading several points against my post, I still have to say that missionary work—while perhaps done with a warm heart—is sinister. I’m not talking about when, say, a town is hit by a tornado and people respond with food and clothing. What I’m referring to—what I’m directly referring to—is when a group of religious people travel somewhere (usually, it seems, in matching T-shirts with goofy slogans like IT’S MOD TO LOVE GOD!) in a concerted effort to get people to “see the light”—oftentimes in underdeveloped parts of the world where people are easily sold and/or, in their poverty, looking for an answer (a former colleague of mine terms this “cultural genocide.” I must agree).

Readers asked, “What’s the difference between a Christian stating his beliefs and me (Jeff Pearlman) stating mine right here?” Well, the differences are many:

A. I’m not trying to sell anything. I don’t care if people reading this share my view or not; or wind up dumping religion or accepting the magic Twinkie as a savior. A missionary, however, is—undeniably—selling something. Which leads to point B …

B. When it comes to religion, you can’t know, with 100% certainty, that you’re right. You just can’t. And if you do, you’re either:

• Crazy.

• Not very bright.

• A post-rehab celebrity.

Think about it. Religion is all about faith. Whether that’s good or bad, I’m not sure (I tend to think of faith as the noose religion leaders tie around the necks of their flock. If something good happens, “See, faith!” If something bad happens, “Now is the time we need to turn to faith!”). But faith should not be a certainty. It can be a strong feeling. Even a really, really, really strong feeling. But it’s not 100 percent. Nobody can know—without question—that their religion is correct. They just can’t, based on the convolution that is history and the various religious texts. Again, they can be pretty darn steadfast. They can even “feel it in their hearts.” But there has to be some doubt, because, well, life includes doubt.

Hence, you’re either crazy/not smart/a post-rehab celeb, or you have even a teeny, tiny sliver of doubt. And if you have a teeny, tiny sliver of doubt, how can you preach your religion to, say, the Sudanese with complete and total certainty? (And, once again, those who have no doubt whatsoever truly scare me. I mean, in a huge way. They’re the people who occupied Jonestown; the people who fly planes into buildings; the people who will take any action as long as they believe God told them to).

As for me, I’ve never said I’m 100-percent right. Oftentimes, I’m 100-percent wrong.

But here, with this issue, I feel pretty confident.

Final thought: This actually isn’t about Christianity, and I feel crappy that it came out that way. This is about organized religion, and the myriad ways it seems to butcher things. Hell, when it comes to Jesus, sans the church and the interpretations and the holidays, I’m a huuuuge fan. I don’t believe he was the messiah (Truthfully, I’m not even sure he existed), but I love how he walked with the sinners; how he felt genuine pain for the suffering; how he cared more for others than himself. That’s a wonderful, beautiful, important message.

And people seem intent on screwing it up.

PS: I received a few letters from people urging me to “stick to sports.” Sorry, but I can’t do it. On my passion/interest list, the rankings go: 1. Politics; 2. Religion; 3. Sports; 4. Roberto Kelly statistical analysis.

Just watched what must go down as the worst episode of a TV show—ever.

Fantasy Island: Season 2, Episode 10.

In this episode, two men come to Fantasy Island. The first is a Navy sailor looking for the Island of Lost Women. He finds it. All the chicks are smokin’ hot, and the sailor assumes he’s gonna get laid—a lot. Then he learns that, after getting laid (a lot), the women will kill him. So he leaves, but not without a member of the Los Angeles Lakers cheer team.

The second man is looking for Big Foot (played by Peter Graves). He find him, using a yellow glider and some sort of machine from the 1930s that tracks body heat. He fires several rounds at the monster, then trips, falls and dangles from high above. Big Foot saves him, grunts and teaches us all about humanity.

Then the little guy says, “dee plane!” a few more times, and the show ends.

By the way, I just asked my wife, “I wonder what Ricardo Montalban is doing these days?” Then I looked him up—he’s dead. Died earlier this year. He was 88, so it’s not tragic. But it’s sad. I always enjoyed him.

Early this morning I read the latest Sports Illustrated cover story, titled, You Gotta Love Tim Tebow.

In summation: Tim Tebow is the University of Florida’s star quarterback. But, even more important, he’s a devout Christian with a literal belief in the Bible. He spends his free time peddling Christianity to prisoners and the poorest denizens of third-world countries. His father is a minister, so Tim’s been told since Day One that there is a single route toward salvation, and it is via Jesus Christ. Because of all of this, he’s a great guy, and someone you should admire.

Before I go on, let me say that the author, Austin Murphy, is a writer I greatly respect—truly one of the best in the business. The story is beautifully presented, with the flawless transitions and word choices you’d expect from Murphy.

That said …

After reading this piece, I don’t feel Tim Tebow. Not. At. All. If you’ve been anything but Christian in this country, you’ve certainly been approached (in a mall; in a store; at your door) by missionaries seeking to save your moral soul. And if you do this job long enough, you’re inevitably asked to profile hard-core Christian athletes. Hell, I’ve done everyone from J.D. Drew to Mike Sweeney. The pieces almost always come out the same: Not only is he a great player, but he’s just as amazing off the field!

Blech.

Personally speaking, I consider missionary work to be incredibly—what’s the right word here?—disturbing. Why are we celebrating young people serving as moralistic salesmen? Why are we celebrating the practice of, literally, going to poor outposts to peddle a particular (historically questionable) vision of Godliness to the “savages”? A closer look at missionary work offers up a sad, frightening history of mistreatment and sleaziness; of pitching The Word by any means necessary. Of manipulation to the Nth degree.

It goes without saying that Tim Tebow believes homosexuals to be sinners (”We’re all sinners,” he would reply—a lame prejudicial concealment); believes that contraception is wrong; believes that … well, on and on and on and on. What I find most disturbing about people of Tebow’s ilk is the actual message being sold: That salvation is the reward worth living for.

Hypothetically speaking, there are two people: One, an agnostic, spots a homeless person and buys him a hamburger because her heart hurts when she sees the man. She wants to help him because he is damaged and in need. The other person, a “Christian,” sees a homeless person and buys him a hamburger because she seeks eternal salvation, and knows that status only comes with living a righteous life. She wants to help because she wants to be saved.

According to the Tim Tebows of the planet, the first woman is damned to an eternity in hell. The second is golden.

Ludicrous.

Say what you want about agnostics or atheists (or, from my experiences, Jews), but they never try and sell you on their beliefs based on the outcome. In other words, you shouldn’t turn to Christianity because you crave eternal salvation, should you? I mean, doesn’t that seem a bit, ahem, un-religious?

Mostly, while reading the piece I kept asking myself, “Who the hell would take life advice from Tim Tebow?” I’m sure he’s a friendly kid. But he’s a sheltered 21-year old whose life has been lathered in football and religion. I’m sure he believes in the realness of his spiritual moments, just as I believe in the realness of mine.

But, really, what’s to celebrate?

So today, the mighty New York Post fired back at ESPN and those of us who dared criticize the newspaper for running those nude stills of Erin Andrews. Their response …

“No one would have known that a sick voyeur had secretly videotaped ESPN reporter Erin Andrews nude in her hotel room, if the Mickey Mouse sports network hadn’t sent a letter to an obscure Web site demanding that it take down its link to a fuzzy video of an unidentified blonde.”

I love this. Absolutely love this. To break down the logic:

A. Someone tapes Erin Andrews getting undressed.

B. ESPN demands the video be removed from a website.

C. People learn about it and frantically Google “Erin Andrews” and “video”

D. The Post deems it righteous to run the photos.

I repeat what I’ve said before: The Post is a joke. A complete joke. I know many people who work there, and they are—once again—humiliated. No justification exists for running nude photos of a woman who didn’t know she was being watched. None. The same scorn should be tossed toward CBS, which ran fuzzed-out clips on the video on its Earl Show. Disgusting, disturbing, pathetic. This has nothing to do with little blog perv boys wanting to see Andrews naked. It has everything to do with the media—in a continued rush to break … something—going way too far.

Pathetic.

PS: A side note—called Col Allan, the Post, editor (pictured above) to get a comment for a piece I’m working on. Of course—shocker!—the gutless coward is calling nobody back. The Post: Great at bashing, hapless at righteousness.