I am going to look beyond the hysteria of the day, real or otherwise and try to turn our minds to the silliness that still abounds.

It finally happened. Marketers (Or was it engineers?) finally found a way to capitalize on the Wonderbra craze of a few years back and have created the “Wonderbum.” Wonderbum is the official name for the newly introduced panty hose that does for the derriere what the Wonderbra did for the chest, only backwards. Cheers for another stride in our ongoing quest for physical fakery. Continuing in the grand tradition of advertising a product that can’t be delivered, the Wonderbum supposedly lifts and separates the rear end in an accentuating manner.

What I can’t figure out is why women continue to spend millions of dollars on these sorts of products, knowing they only attract the kind of men that they continually complain about. Like a bad episode of “Sex in the City,” (Pick any one you want, they all apply) I can hear the typical conversation between women, discussing this product:

“Men are pigs, they are only interested in one thing. Why can’t they appreciate me for my brain? Well I can’t continue this conversation, I have a nail appointment now and then want to get to the tanning bed before I have to get in line at Victoria Secret’s for my very own Wonderbum.”

Who thought of the name Wonderbum anyway? This sounds like something a 3rd grader would have come up with, right behind, “Supercan,” “Rumpmarkable,” “Fannytastic,” and “Rearrific.” I guess guys should be flattered that women are trying this hard. Goodness knows, if you can get a man to shave about every 3rd day, you are doing good. Nevertheless, someone needs to get to the bottom of this.

The World Series looms large on the horizon, but not for the Atlanta Braves. The Bravos have become the longest running disappointment known to man, only rivaled by Sylvester Stallone’s movie career. There is no other word for the Braves than “tease.” Year after year we are promised the Big Kahuna only to get the Big Kelbasa.

We know they are going to make the playoffs. That is as assured as a rap singer’s next arrest. What happens after, though is always just a big, fat, boring letdown, sorta like the subsequent careers of every actor from “Seinfeld.” Baseball, the only game slower than women’s golf and white guys boxing, now has the consummate poster team for it’s target audience: the big, fat, boring, male.

Lastly, needing a good spamming is, Ann Robinson of “The Weakest Link.” I never knew I could just memorize the first book I ever bought, ”2000 Insults for All Occasions,” and have made a career of it. This woman is more abusive than Don Rickles in too-tight, asbestos underwear. On Survivor they have blood drinking, here they have blood letting. It’s not that the show is unentertaining, but how does a a dumpy, frumpy wiseacre who just fell off the freight train from the Middle Ages get to be a celebrity. The more I watched her, the more she seemed to remind me of someone (or something).

Aside from the shark in “Jaws,” it hit me. She is the combination of every mean librarian I have ever seen in my life, Uberlibrarian. If you were to marry a German republican dominatrix to a slaughterhouse foreman they could very well spawn Ann Robinson. Does anyone have her number?