No additional words needed.

… has to be Alan Grayson, a freshman congressman from Florida.

First, on Wednesday he spoke on the House floor, saying the Republican health care plan calls for sick people to “die quickly.”

He then made another floor speech in which he apologized to the dead and their families for not acting sooner on health care reform, and later defended both speeches on CNN’s “The Situation Room.” “What I mean is they have got no plan,” he said. “It’s been 24 hours since I said that. Where is the Republican plan? We’re all waiting to see something that will take care of the pre-existing conditions, to take care of the 40 million Americans who have no coverage at all.”

Look, I’m a fan of civility. A big fan, really. I love long walks on the beach, post-game handshakes and hugs with short people. But enough is enough. For the past six months or so, Republicans have been killing Democrats on health care reform, citing one lie (they want to pull the plug on grandma) after another (Socialistic agenda) after another (death panels). I dig Barack Obama—but he needs to start slugging back. At least someone needs to start slugging back.

Truth is, the public option is a great idea—a way to have open competition between the established BS health care providers and an alternative source. The reason all Republicans and too many conservative Democrats oppose it is because (gasp!) health companies contribute tons of campaign dollars, and money talks. The politicians who vote for a public option can kiss the dough farewell. And, I assure you, some eager primary opponent will be more than happy to take it.

So bravo to Mr. Grayson. At least he spoke the truth.

At the suggestion of Josh Berwitz, the husband of my wife’s cousin (and a helluva good guy), I was going to write this Friday’s SI.com column on Mariano Rivera, and how he deserves to be this year’s American League Cy Young Award winner. Then, however, I bent down to pick up this week’s SI from my mail pile and saw this …

Bravo to Sports Illustrated for finally giving due to, without much debate, the most underrated baseball player of his generation. Mariano Rivera isn’t merely the best closer of the modern era, or even the best closer of all time. No, he now needs to be regarded as one of the, oh, 10 elite pitchers to ever play the game, right up there with Cy Young and Sandy Koufax and Nolan Ryan and Bruce Berenyi. For nearly 1 1/2 decades, Rivera has used one pitch—his ungodly cut fastball—to frustrated, befuddle and dazzle. Though he still trails Milwaukee’s Trevor Hoffman in the all-time saves chase, he is to to the former Padre what Per Se is to Kennedy Fried Chicken. There is no comparison.

So, dear baseball fan, pay attention. Really pay attention. Mariano Rivera is 40-years old, and probably won’t last that much longer. So watch. Gaze. Pay close attention. Because while much of the pinstriped attention goes to Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez and C.C. Sabathia, they are mere mortals compared to a true baseball deity

Watched this today. All these years later, still find the saga of Len Bias so haunting. So sad. It’s also, for me, sort of a JFK-was-shot memory. I was in my driveway, 14-years old, shooting hoops. There was obviously no internet; no 24-hour sports network available for a guy with 13 channels. So, curious after the draft aftermath (and with my parents nowhere to be found), I called one of those 50-cent sports update phone lines. Will always remember hearing, “This just in. Reports out of Boston confirm that Len Bias, the No. 2 pick in yesterday’s NBA Draft, is dead …”

Couldn’t believe it. Stunned. Staggered. Punched in the gut.

Had he lived, Len Bias would be 46 right now.

Oy.

Deadspin just posted something about my Sal Fasano column. One of the posters wrote, “God, Jeff Pearlman can die in a fucking fire.”

What type of human being would ever write such a thing? Over a sports column, no less.

Answer: An anonymous loser without the guts—or decency—to place his real name behind his words. Then again, a decent person never writes that to begin with.

Four days ago I wrote this column for Sports Illustrated’s website. It’s the saga of Sal Fasano, veteran baseball journeyman who, at age 38, is very concerned about paying for his 2-year-old son’s heart surgery. I’ve known Sal for a long time, and consider him to be a very worthy, noble man.

Yet in the aftermath of the piece, I was shocked by some of the letters I received. In summation: Why should I feel bad for Sal Fasano? He made $300,000 last year to play baseball. Do you know how many people would kill for that? Yabba Dabba Doo …

Though I understand the sentiment, I am nonetheless saddened by it. Universally, from coast to coast and across all spectrums political, religious and economic, we Americans possess strikingly little empathy. The Fasano case reminded me of an instance several years ago, when I gave my peanut butter sandwich to a homeless man begging for food in New York City. A person I know said, “Why’d you do that? The guy should get a job.” I was horrified. Maybe the guy should have gotten a job. Maybe he was a scam artist. A fraud. But, come day’s end, he was still a human being standing on a corner, asking for something to eat. That alone merits sympathy—just as Sal, money be damned, is a person scared to death about his son’s plight.

Yet this is who we are; what we stand for. When it comes to health care (whether you agree with the current plans or not), there seems to be little-to-no empathy for the millions of Americans who can’t afford a plan. When it comes to taxes, we all whine and complain and moan (myself included), forgetting that, somewhere out there, an AIDS clinic … a homeless shelter … a battered women’s support group—depends on federal and state funds. We walk past the homeless man and don’t flinch. We see a foreclosed house and instantly think (excitedly), “Great! Now I can buy that!” We hear of fatalities overseas and comfort ourselves by saying, “Well, at least they weren’t Americans.” We are heartless, and it truly sucks.

Why, just two evenings ago, while sitting in synagogue listening to Yom Kippur service, an old man got sick and needed help. While some people made their way to his side, and others called 9-1-1, the rabbi and cantor just kept rolling along, trying to distract the attendees from the ugly situation at hand.

That sums it up: Turn your eyes. Look elsewhere.

Ignore the bleeding.

While working out at the gym tonight I had the misfortune of seeing this—the preview for Saw VI, the latest installment in the wacky, wild, uproarious Saw franchise of child-friendly comedies.

As a kid, growing up on the tough, gang-infested streets of Mahopac, N.Y., I loved horror films. From Friday the 13th to Halloween to Blood Beech, I could only hope my folks would allow me to stay up late and watch the tale of some crazy slasher go Jose Offermann (only with a chainsaw) on a gaggle of near-naked teenage girls. I laughed, I cringed, I hid my eyes behind my hands. It was a blast.

As I’ve aged, however, something has changed. At age 37, I hate the modern horror movies. Part of it is probably just growing up—just as I no longer find Police Academy to be even remotely funny, I no longer have much interest in watching some masked freak boy with a steak knife. But mostly, it relates to death. Today’s horror movies generally lack the camp of yesteryear, and—as a result—take death entirely too, eh, seriously. There’s this ravenous clinching to life; a scratching and clawing and desperation to hang on, as a gun is pointed at the character’s head or a swarm of tigers is released from a cage. The victims aren’t afraid of the actual villains, a la Jason, Mike and Freddie, but of the termination of life. They don’t want to die. They don’t want to die. They don’t want to die.

I wonder what teen-agers think, seeing this. Is death a joke—just something that happens in a movie? Is it real? I’ occasionally think of the scene in Forrest Gump, when Sally Field’s character has reached the end of her days. Her son comes rushing home and appears at her bedside. She looks at him and, with a sparkle in the eye, says, “Death is a part of life. It’s just a part of life.” Although I am working to better cope with the issue of life’s inevitable termination, I agree 100 percent with the Gump-ian sentiment. Death is a part of life. It’s mysterious and scary and remarkable and tragic and poetic—but, at day’s end, something we all approach and confront.

Yet the more we endorse this sense of dread, the more we wind up producing paranoid freakoids … like me.

Taken in 1990. I’m the sexy 130 pounder in the center, top.

Am in the early stages of fasting for Yom Kippur. This is the most religious Jewish holiday of the year, which means I probably shouldn’t be blogging. But since I don’t eat pork or milk and meat together, I think I’m cool.

Attended synagogue tonight with my sister in law. A riveting occurence happened, oh, 30 minutes into the service, and I’m not quite sure what to think. The temple holds about 800 people—a humongous building with four or five Torahs and a rabbi, an assistant rabbi, a cantor and a student cantor. It’s so big there are actually TV monitors scattered throughout, just to help those in the back. Anyhow, I’m sitting, listening, when I see a happening to my left. People are swarming around, whispering, walking fast, when—BOOM!—the paramedics enter the room. They wheel out an elderly man who appears to be several steps removed from the morgue.

Thing is, throughout the entire ordeal, nothing stopped. The rabbi kept talking, the cantor kept singing. Leah, my sister in law, turned to me and whispered, “How many doctors do you think are here?” My guess was 50. Hers was 100.

I just sort of thought that, on the day of atonement, perhaps the rabbi should have stopped the service to make sure everything was OK; should have said, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s reflect silently for a moment or two while …”

Instead, it felt weird. We’re all praying, going along to go along, while this guy might be kicking the bucket.

Shalom.