The Hit Man

I am 6' 5" tall.

I am a graduate of the legendary Towson High School, 69 Cedar Avenue, Towson MD.

My birthday is June 30.
I know how to swim.

The preceding statements are true for both me and for Olympic champion Michael Phelps. There are several billion differences between us, but foremost among them is this: I would not jeopardize my standing in the athletic community or the advertising community or the national good will and esteem by being photographed doing bong hits.

Here's the point: it's none of anyone's business what people want to do in their private lives. Young Phelps already did community service on a DWI rap here in 2004, and everyone rallied to his support, pointing out that he had only committed a youthful indiscretion and was entitled to a second chance, as well as habeas corpus, corpus delicti and the right to keep and bear arms.

True enough. And again, as long as you aren't going to drive a car or operate on my gluteus maximus or fly a plane or do anything even remotely dangerous to my safety and the safety of anyone else, it's up to you what you want to do to pass your time. Even though all medical surveys indicate that smoking pot substantially increases your risk of having to listen to Phil Collins, hey: forewarned is forearmed.

But Michael, this time, could you spare us the hangdog look, the doleful countenance and stuttered apology? How about standing up and saying, "This is who I am...young and rich...and foolish."