|Back to earth, Worm|
By Steve Woodward
Special to Page 2
I, for one, am thrilled that Dennis Rodman had that little motorcycle incident in the parking lot of a Las Vegas casino the other day.
It should derail his thoughts of a National Basketball Association comeback at age 42. Why, after all, would Rodman want to subject his aging body to the rigors of another NBA season when there are so many other important, cool things he can do with the rest of his life? Who needs a round of jeers during a Tuesday night NBA stop in, say, Memphis?
Believe me, as a fellow 42-year-old (who often passes for 43), I know there are a lot of guys who envy your options, Dennis. Allow me to elaborate:
Hillary Clinton is going to run for the White House, despite her resistance to such suggestions. She left her dignity there and, by God, she is going back to find it among the ex-President's chewed cigar butts and the other "stuff" he hid in the Lincoln Bedroom on his little leader-of-the-free-world adventure. (Bill doesn't know it yet, but he gets to be Buddy the Dog this time). She'll need the tattooed, cross-dressing, body-piercing, card playing, hard-living, ex-NBA-star vote, and you, Dennis, can deliver. And, honey, she needs some help with that hair!
She'll also need some edits and re-writes for her new book, "It Takes A Village of High Net Worth Donors." Do you have a laptop for this plum assignment? A laptop ... It's like a lap dance, with a motherboard.
Here's another one. Eventually, Fidel Castro is going to head off to that great, big Commie tobacco field in the sky, so Cuba will need a leader, and an investor in its first House of Blues. Dennis, it's all you, baby. Nothing says freedom like a Cuban leader in green fatigues and a chartreuse boa. Plus, you can dock your boat down there and stay clear of those pesky Newport Beach cops who seem so needlessly intolerant of you.
But first, Rush Limbaugh should be out of drug rehab any day now. Did somebody say, "De-tox coach?" Look, marriage counselors thrive despite their own divorces. Some flight attendants are afraid to fly. Why not help out El Rushbo with some tough love and a new set of screening guidelines for his housekeepers? He simply can't hire any more domestic help that knows their way around dark alleys with a wad of bills. He needs you, Dennis. You can talk hoops, NFL, politics, and to spice it up … nylons. A little cross dressing helps keep even the most ardent conservative a bit more grounded, don't you think?
Should you seek a really big-time assignment, look no further, young Dennis, than the suspected -- and truly pathetic -- Washington, D.C.-area "sniper." Apparently, the alleged mastermind of last year's random shootings, John Allen Muhammad, figured being his own lawyer in the courtroom would be as easy as, say, hiding out in the trunk of a sedan and firing bullets at innocent people.
This guy needs the insanity defense. To prep for the trial, he could consult with you about your bestselling book, "Bad As I Want To Be."
Ironically, Muhammad also is 42. So you see, Dennis, there are things that are worse than being you. You can do a lot of different kinds of shooting in this life without facing a maximum jail sentence.
You can shoot baskets for another NBA team, if it needs a quick ticket sales boost. You can shoot more action films, like the one you did with Jean-Claude Van Damme. You can shoot your mouth off on talk radio. You can shoot your life savings at the tables.
You can do "shooters" with Liza, Rush and Hillary.
Something tells me all of them could use a drinking buddy about now.
If you ever go back to pro wrestling after you've helped out all these folks, they can introduce you in the ring as "Dennis, The Enabler."
Keep out of jail and out of trouble, and run like hell if you see Tonya Harding winking from across a pool table. Someday, Dennis, they'll elect you governor of California. During the race, tell the press you remember nothing that happened before you were 42. Who'd doubt you?
Steve Woodward, 42, has no basketball skill, no tattoos, no body piercings (and, come to think of it, no body), no motorcycles, no movie offers and nothing in common with Dennis Rodman except the shared realization that there are some really peculiar ways to earn a living, if that's what they call this.