"That, that ... guy."

He wasn't talking about Terrell Owens so much as the man who appeared, literally and metaphorically, at his side. I concede my pal's point. In this economy, there is no more contemptible creature than the self-styled super-agent. Certainly, Owens' guy fits the bill. "A Shark Never Sleeps" — the first volume in Drew Rosenhaus' autobiographical canon — was published in 1997, when the man described in the subtitle as "the NFL's most ruthless agent" was just 31. The cover photo features Rosenhaus with stacks of money.

"This can't be happening," said my friend. "I mean, in the real world."

Owens' sudden signing with the Buffalo Bills was just the latest case of sports imitating pro wrestling. If Owens were the heel, then Rosenhaus is even more perfect cast in the role of the villain's valet.

Just as I'm starting to feel a little better about the criminal justice system, it occurs to me that Charles Barkley did more time than Paris Hilton.

Actually, it's even money he'll do more time than Bernie Madoff.

Bracketology? Is that, like, instead of therapy?

I see that Dick Vitale is pushing Bobby Hurley Sr. for the Hall of Fame.

Funny, I kind of remember reading that somewhere.

The iPod experience would be better if only you could download liner notes.

The kid editing this column thinks liner notes could've helped him make the honor roll.

And the Rhodes Scholar next to him thinks it's something you can smoke.

When, exactly, did Matt Cassel become a lock for Canton?

Show me a good fighter, any good fighter, and I'll show you a guy who made the most of a tragic event.

Still, even by the standards of these motivational cataclysms, Manny Pacquiao's stands alone.

My dad ate my dog?

Now that's original.