Tired of chump moves.

My dad refers to such acts as "Bush League."

I've also heard them coined "sucker punches" or "cheap shots" or "low blows," but I'll go with my favorite term to describe those underhanded, mean-spirited, feats of cowardice:

Chump moves.

The sports world holds claim to the preponderance of chumps, and they can be traced virtually to the origin of competitive athletics. Using his sharpened, metal spikes to disable opposing players, Ty Cobb held legendary status as a dirty player.

Throughout the ensuing decades, the ranks of the Slimeball Hall of Fame grew in numbers, with Danny Ainge, Alex Rodriguez, Bill Romanowski and Karl Malone held aloft as kings of dirty pool shooting.

Roger Clemens, one of the dimmest athletes to ever throw a round thing ninety miles per hour, claimed to be tossing a baseball at Mike Piazza during a moment of confusion at the 2000 World Series. Clemens actually was hurling a splintered bat toward the mulleted Met's carotid artery.

Chumps, all.

Yesterday, Andrew Bynum of the Los Angeles Lakers etched his name among the best of the worst when he decided to imitate a low freeway overpass to JJ Barea's unsecured load. With the game and the playoff series already locked up for the Dallas Mavericks, Bynum concluded that the Mavs' tiny Barea wasn't limboing far enough under the Laker's meaty forearm and elbow. Barea slammed to the floor after appearing to reach the end of an invisible leash.

Immediately ejected, Mr. Bynum peeled off his jersey at half court and sauntered to the locker room amid a chorus of boos. I'm not sure why he felt the need to remove any clothing; In fact, I may have asked for a few towels to catch the snot oysters raining down from the Mavricks' fan base/mob.

Plus, taking off my shirt at work is no good for anyone.

No one likes these guys, even their own supporters.

I coach eleven-year-old girls soccer, and they play with fire and intensity. No longer at the age when the goalie makes mud pies with the fullbacks while the ball is down at the other end, these kids knock each other around.

They play clean. When someone is bumped to the ground, she's helped up and asked if she's okay. When the game's over, everyone high fives and goes back to discussing cats who throw up in sister's bedrooms or the possibilities of securing a Slurpee. No revenge, no hard feelings, no cheap shots.

When is sportsmanlike behavior jettisoned in favor of tantrums and acting out? High school? College? And make no mistake; chump moves aren't confined to the sporting arena.

Politicians proposing cuts to Medicare and Medicaid while simultaneously proposing tax breaks for oil companies: chump move.

The Soviet giant who killed Apollo Creed during a seemingly harmless exhibition: chump move.

People who decide, while sitting on a standing-room-only bus, to occupy the adjacent seat with half a box of Low Salt Wheat Thins and some fingerless gloves: chump move.

"Mission Accomplished": Bush League.

Microsoft claiming that Windows had nothing to do with the Macintosh desktop: chump move.

Using a riding lawn mower on a lawn the size of a Cheescake Factory plate: chump move, in a green sense.

Cats who kill lame baby birds: chump move.

Going for the Karate Kid's leg, which obviously has a bone sticking out of it: seriously chump move.

That's a few, but please share; what are some chump moves that boil your blood? It's fine if you want to talk about Danny Ainge a little more.

Are you a trusting person? I'm not sure I believe you.

In the words of any nineteenth century gold prospector, "Cinnamon and gravy, it's been an outlandish week!"

It has indeed. To top things off with a hearty dollop of bizarre, this headline graced the home page of Friday morning's Seattle Post-Intelligencer:

Al-Qaida Confirms Osama Bin Laden's Death.


Let me get this straight—our government, although opting not to release images of Bin Laden's body, nonetheless provided concrete proof of his deadness to Al-Qaida?

What did the Americans do, swing by a cave to pick up a couple of AQ higher-ups, climb into a bathysphere with a good flashlight and motor down to the bottom of the North Arabian Sea to check out Osama's new status as a Red Lobster for red lobsters?

Probably not, which makes a headline like that so much stranger and so ironic. Here's Al-Qaida, an organization which prides itself on misdirection and propaganda, yet buys off on its enemy's account of the truth.

Meanwhile, a large contingent of the non-suicide-bombing public remains skeptical of anything portrayed by anyone with a "White House" logo perched on the wall behind them. Since, in my last post, I also blathered about our mistrust in the veracity of government news releases, I won't go much further here.

Let's just say, after the Bush administration's bait and switch tactics about WMDs and Iraq's involvement in September 11, we've become one huge state of Missouri. Trust has been lacking and trust must be earned back.

As the week approaches its close, I'm left contemplating what an important role this concept of trust holds in our lives. We must either trust others or live a life of isolation.

I've decided it might help to separate trust by degrees, starting with the lowest degree and working toward the highest. Since I've so frequently mentioned the government, they'll be excluded from this exercise, so here goes:

Anyone with the word "dealer" in his or her job description—For example, used car dealers, drug dealers or unaccounted for nuclear weapons dealers aren't trustworthy at all, yet we've all dealt with at least one of these. By the way, remind me to call that guy about that plutonium he shorted me on.

Complete stranger trust—It really is amazing how often we trust someone whom we've never seen nor spoken to.

"Can you watch my beer? I'm here by myself and I really have to pee," or

"Will you take our picture after we get to the top of that forty foot rock wall? It's for our Christmas card and this new camera is really good at zooming in. Thanks."

Friend trust—This can go either way.

It can be anything from, "Dude, I'm here for you. You know I'll bail you out. Just give me until Monday because I'm bonding with a cutie over an X Files marathon," to

"Dude, I'm here for you. You know I'll bail you out if you help my Grandpa deliver calves this summer while I go to Spain."

Medical/Dental trust—We really have no choice here.

We can only pray that our doctor doesn't employ an alternative form of medicine. "Your mole tastes benign, but I'll have to perform more tests after I get over this cold." No thanks.

We also don't want a dentist who giggles and whispers his mother's name to himself while drilling.

Family trust—Ultimately, we must place unconditional trust in our families.

With children, it's always a slippery slope: "Dad, I didn't tell you about my secret hamster because I know you're scared of corn dog-sized mammals. Mom's not, and she says she's never been more unattracted to you than when you did that man scream. Can I keep him, anyway?"

Spouses must be held to the highest standard; nothing can supersede the sanctity of marital trustworthiness. And so, when she comes home as the clock glows 3:46, smelling of Old Spice, pipe tobacco and hummus, believe her when she tells you she was working the snack table at the Senior Center Easter Sock Hop. Do not let your imagination take you to her practicing the Kama Sutra with a Turkish hookah magnate.

Now that our week is at an end, let's resolve to trust each other a little more next week, and a little more the week after.

If not, the terrorists have won.

How lucky was the man who shot Bin Laden?

Do you believe in "luck?"

Is being lucky nothing more than a kiss on the cheek by the cosmic breeze of fortune, an act of blind, random chance?

Or, do you believe that we contribute to our own lucky ways, that we position ourselves, through our choices and decisions, for outcomes which may be perceived by others as simply lucky?

Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon's surface and into history on July 20, 1969. He was pegged to be first based upon his calm demeanor, his exemplary piloting skills...and his status as a civilian. Bowing to pressure to ease American-Soviet relations at the close of a tumultuous decade, NASA  penciled in Armstrong as a gesture of non-militaristic goodwill.

Was Neil Armstrong lucky?

Although Morris Jeppson had worked for months on the electronic fusing of the atomic bomb which would detonate over Hiroshima, he was chosen as a member of the Enola Gay's thirteen-man crew over a coin flip, thereby punching his timecard in history.

Was Morris Jeppson lucky?

And now, somewhere this morning, whether on a ship or military base or at home with his family, a man has awakened, risen out of bed and looked into a mirror. As he shaves for the day ahead, he pauses. His hand drops to the sink, clanging the metal razor on the clean porcelain.

He leans forward and stares into his half-shaved face.

 "I'm the one.

I put a bullet in him.

I ended the life of Earth's most wanted criminal.

I killed Osama Bin Laden."

Lucky?

Our politicians are notorious for embellishing or even fabricating acts of valor to further their station among the public. Their exploitations of Pat Tillman and Jessica Lynch have jaded Americans to the point where we'll withhold our judgment until we can compile the facts for six months to a year. Only then will many of us decide whether or not to brush aside our cynicism.

And such a difficult exercise that is, when we occupy a society which thirsts for heroes. We manufacture American Idols and Biggest Losers because we love these stories and we can believe in the people. It's right there in front of us; no spin, no backtracking, no double talk.

And now, more than ever, America wants her hero, front and center.

I dearly  hope, in this age of Twitter, TMZ and Wikileaks, that this Navy SEAL's name never bubbles to the surface. If it does, this man's life will irrevocably, profoundly, change.

Sure, he'll never have to buy another drink; he'll be wined and dined and prodded and poked and thrown so far out of his realm, he'll wonder what his life was like when he was "nothing more" than a courageous soldier.

Lucky?

Trump: "I woulda brung him back alive."

After this past weekend, I think we know who the grownups are.

We also know whom should be sitting at the kids' table.

I'll give Donald Trump one thing: at least he had, in his vernacular, the "bwalls" to show his ruddy face at Saturday night's White House Correspondents' Association Dinner. After spending years causing a ruckus with his cacophonous pie hole, he concluded last week at the top of his game, declaring himself in a dead heat with Barack Obama in the race for the 2012 Presidency.

Sure you are, Donald, and if I could drop eighty pounds and do a little waxing, I'd be Eva Freaking Longoria.

I realize that the human ego, especially male, can be blinding. But the fact that this guy considers himself to be a short-lister for leader of the free world (countries with at least five Wal-Marts) cranks the needle up past "insane" and "megalomaniacal" to "umm...security?"

But if it wasn't difficult enough for Trump to be mercilessly skewered by our President and a few others at the dinner, he was permanently demoted to the minors Sunday night, when Mr. Obama announced the killing of Osama bin Laden.

Hey Don, next time you comb your hair, just go a little further forward and all the way down your face, mmmkay? Thanks.

During the past several days, President Obama has displayed the moxie and cool that I only hoped for upon casting my ballot. Throughout that red herring expedition sponsored by the birthers and championed by Don, the President calmly tucked the issue into bed while planning the take down of the most prolific mass murderer of our lifetimes.

Talk about a poker face.

How does he do it? How does perform the every day duties of Commander-In-Chief, let alone shoulder the heavy burdens of war, health care, the economy and racist snipe hunts by people like Trump?

I have no idea how that job doesn't completely break a person. If I try to boil pasta while unloading the dishwasher, the stress causes acid reflux and acne on my inner thighs. And that's after lying in a dark room thinking only of a Pop Tart forest.

In addition to Obama, what about his family? I'm sure they're forced to endure many unwelcome obligations. I can just hear Michelle Obama saying, "Seriously, Barack, take the Prime Minister of Luxembourg to Ruth's Chris tonight and tell his wife I've got a migraine. I know you like him, but I'd be stuck with her. Remember, she has that condition where her eyes don't blink and she smells like bacon."

And what about the Obama kids? I'm sure he's been faced with, "Come on, Dad. No way are we spending three hours with the Sarcozy kids. They say mean stuff about us in French and all they want to do is play Lite Brite."

Naturally, every President since number one, the original George W., has weathered severe emotional storms. Some handled the pressure gracefully, while others sought outlets of distraction. I've heard that our President occasionally sneaks a smoke out on the veranda. Hey, do what you must, Mr. President.

I wonder if the Presidential Seal is affixed to the rusty coffee can he uses for an ashtray.

All I know is, Barack Obama has my vote in 2012. And to all you contenders, you can go through the buffet line first.

The kids' table is back in the rec room.

Royal Wedding? Count me in!

Okay, time to come out of the closet.

Since relating these shallow reflections has become a far cheaper form of personal psychotherapy, here comes another bombshell at the expense of you, the unfortunate reader:

I'm into this royal wedding thing.

In fact, I love all of it; I'm wacky for the Windsors of Wales, dizzy over Queen Lizzy.

I'm Harried.

I blame my mom. She started me at an early age, watching PBS dramatic miniseries, such as The Six Wives of Henry VIII and Elizabeth R. Mom would recline in her Naugahyde easy chair while I stretched out on the avocado shag, the Motorola casting harmful RGB rays onto my nine-year-old, pre-pustuled face.

Together we viewed every show as Mom provided a running back story to all the Tudor tomfoolery—the intrigue, the poor personal hygiene, the divorce/beheadings and the reckless inbreeding which consolidated power into one family-ish throughout Europe.

It all came flooding back this week, as another generation of Brit royals, albeit far better looking than previous generations, prepared to litter London's streets with more horse cookies than we've seen since June of 1981. So much glitz, so much ceremony, these nuptials leave any other weddings about which I've expounded in the horse dust.

But when the rubber hits the road, how different is the story of William and Kate from any other couple who've fallen in love and decided to seal their collective futures in front of an adoring public?

Okay, it's a lot different, but play along.

May is the month when my wife and I will celebrate our twenty-second wedding anniversary. That day was fantastic, as I'm sure the young royal couple's was.

See? some common ground.

I've decided to investigate whether any further common ingredients existed between this week's supersized Royale with Cheese and the Happy Meal which took place in Enumclaw, Washington on May 27, 1989. You may be surprised:

Both brides were striking brunettes. One is now a permanent royal. The other had a royal permanent.

Each event had guests in attendance from Kent.

The grooms each enlisted their brothers' services as best men. And although I don't possess first-hand knowledge, I've heard Harry had just as much trouble finding a donkey for the bachelor party as my brother did.

William has been a prince since birth, but I've held the title of Auburn High School Grub Tolo Prince since spring of 1979. You realize that title is forever, right?

Naturally, in addition to my wedding's decided advantage in average family tooth count, many differences are also apparent:

1,600 invitees attended William and Kate's ceremony. Seventy-five showed up for ours. You know what, though? We totally could have found 1,600 people to come to our wedding, if we used that Kevin Bacon method. Plus, Costco wasn't around yet, and we weren't able to find a place to sell us that many Hot Pockets for the reception.

The royal wedding reception probably didn't have a deceptively pie-sized slab of brie, which sickened a few after confusing it for cheesecake.

Since the distance from the wedding at Westminster Abbey to the reception at Buckingham Palace is far less than twenty miles, the Prince and Princess likely didn't ask their carriage driver to pull into a Circle K for a cheap bottle of champagne for the ride.

The security bill for the British government was twenty million dollars. We had no security, unless you counted a friend of mine who lettered twice in wrestling.

I really hope these two can withstand the onslaught that lies before them. They seem like nice kids, and, considering the checkered past of royal relationships, they've got their work cut out for them.

Especially Sunday dinner at Grandma's house.

Paying the piper a $122 processing fee.

I suppose that intimidating aura has cleared a bit.

After all, it's not like in those old black and white movies, where a cowering defendant slouches, spot lit in the center of a courtroom, hovered over by a gray, scowling man who glares down with the ire of the Grim Reaper sans hood.

The vanquished convict twitches and spasms as the sadistic jurist dispatches the criminal to Sing Sing or Alcatraz or some other 1940s version of Gitmo. A faint closed-mouthed smile seeps to the surface of the judge's grizzled face.

His gavel slams the proceedings to an abrupt conclusion. Justice has again been served.

I tried to purge these exaggerated thoughts as I made my way to the Seattle Municipal Court building this morning to address a speeding ticket I'd received back in January.

I knew I wouldn't be pleading my case to a robed judge. My confessor would be a magistrate. I listened as an imaginary George Carlin contrasted those two words: Judge (elocuted in a thunderous baritone) or magistrate (in his best Sesame Street tenor).

And after wiling away too many hours of my youth-ish watching The People's Court and Judge Judy, I'd previously convinced myself that these magistrates have likely born witness to more childish behavior than the Kardashians summering on Jersey Shore. Besides, I figured, I can play fake lawyer with the best of them. I'll Just throw out some Latin terminology, like "Your honor, I hereby assert a prima facie writ of habeas corpus, and thereby petition the court to dismiss all charges leveled heretowithin."

Okay, maybe not.

Previously deciding to plead guilty to driving thirty in a school zone (marked speed of twenty), I nevertheless opted to present some extenuating circumstances. A few that originally sounded decent, but I later overruled were:

-I've got a rare genetic disease known as Cretin's Disease.

-It made sense to get through the school zone as quickly as possible, thereby placing fewer kids in harm's way.

-This cop-in-front-of-the-school thing is the very reason I joined the Tea Party—too much government equals too many cops.

-Thirty miles an hour is slow enough for a lot of the upper grade children to outrun.

-I understand we've never met before, your honor, but have you lost weight?

-I didn't even realize I was speeding. The all-time best driving song, We Built This City, came on my minivan's radio, and when that happens, I cannot be held responsible for any and all acts of bad-assedness.

Nope, as great as those ideas are and were, none of them traveled across the magistrate's desk from my mouth to his waiting ears. In fact, the whole thing took about three minutes.

I asked the friendly, nicely dressed man to consider deferring my $189 ticket. In the City of Seattle, a judge can opt to postpone your citation for one year. If, after that time, no further moving violations are committed, the misdeed is permanently removed and the Department of Licensing is not notified.

After settling up downstairs by paying a $122 processing fee, I was out the door and down the sidewalk. What the hell sort of processing costs $122? I wondered. For that much, you could be "processed" by someone after a lap dance and an eight dollar Pepsi.

Drive carefully, now.

The old upsell: America at its best.

"Thank you for calling Domino's Pizza, where your body may still be digesting our old crust, but we give you our word that our new and improved dough will slide right on through. My name is Ashton and I'd love to sell you as many carbohydrates as possible. Ask me about our meat and cheese filled cheesy bread topped with meat and cheese, plus a five-liter Coca-Cola for the price of a four-liter Pepsi. My I please have your address, natural hair color and most recent PSA test results? Thanks. Now how may I help you?"

I actually made up the second half of that paragraph, because halfway through the spiel, I had hung up and decided to whip up some pizza toast.

Doesn't it just seem like everywhere we go, someone is trying to sell us something? And after we've purchased that something, they squeeze us to buy even more?

Remember when ads began popping up at movie theaters? I know I wasn't alone in taking offense, as the audience usually booed, and then yelled things like, "Damn it! Get this Dr. Pepper commercial off the screen. I came to see Top Gun, not this crap!"

And now, we're resigned to viewing at least half an hour of ads for Sprite Zero, now with protein, and special two-for-one deals on popcorn and unlimited drinking fountain water out in the lobby.

Okay, fine. I can deal with the movie assaults, because, really, everything looks better on the big screen, except maybe John Travolta's ever expanding nostrils. My most recent challenge concerns what's been going down on my city's streets, and probably the crowded sidewalks of most other large urban settings, as well.

After leaving work, I usually walk the five blocks to the bus stop in silent meditation. I review the day's events, sometimes laughing, occasionally shedding a tear and on one occasion, throwing up behind a dumpster. These moments are precious and valuable to my psyche, and I don't wish to be disturbed.

That's when it happens. An energetic, thin youngster in skinny jeans and an eyebrow ring approaches me from three o'clock, hand extended. "Hello, sir. My name is Wyoming and I'm wondering if I could have a moment of your time to talk about some really sick children."

I usually just mumble a "Sorry," and execute a sharp post pattern around him, like a receiver shaking a defender on the way to the end zone, or in this case, the bus stop.

"That's cool, bro." I hear his voice trailing off from behind. "Not everyone is into helping children in Canada who are starving because they were born without heads. Have a peaceful evening."

I realize these are idealistic, young people who probably think they're simultaneously making money and a difference in our world. They bear the sword of righteous relentlessness, and even the Dalai Lama, the Pope and that hugging saint from India wouldn't be immune if one of these kids spotted them as they made their way to Happy Teriyaki for lunch.

What I'm not sure they understand is the amount of competition around them; they're not working in a vacuum, here, and we old folks tire of this onslaught. I consider myself a reasonably charitable guy; but I enjoy contributing to organizations where soft selling is the modus operandi, not the Billy Mays School of Terrier Tactics.

Whether they want to believe it or not, these people are vying for our attention along with that pregnant teenager holding a cardboard sign, and that nice elderly man yelling through a bullhorn that our existence will end next Tuesday around 4:30.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a little breather, so I'm off to one of the few remaining businesses where the employees truly care about my well being.

I'm going to the bank.