When, in the course of sporting events, it becomes necessary to dissolve bands that bind and gag the innocent fan, any self-respecting wag with a deadline must declare the causes that impel him to this separation.

To celebrate the birthday of the most important entity in world history (not you, ESPN), I hold the following truths to be self-evident:

• That every sport has a season and shall not be trifled with.

It’s the Fourth of July, people. If you are not watching baseball or tennis on TV and/or (gulp) youth soccer, you commit treason of the highest order. Hands that peruse a story about basketball or hockey free agency for more than 30 seconds are the devil’s workshop.

• That Bill Belichick is the New England sports anti-Christ.

He comes in peace. He performs miracles. He enslaves us for six months and makes it impossible to digest the mediocrity that every other Boston-based professional enterprise dishes out for the other six. Yes, this includes the Red Sox.

• That sports reporters who put on suits, mousse their hair beyond recognition, go on TV and debate minutia after drawing straws to pick sides five minutes before the broadcast look and sound stupid.

There is a reason you became writers. You’re ugly. You’re fat. Your ‘Q’ rating is a minus-100. You want to be part of the “new media?” Get a blog.

• That kids need a break.

The more we beat the bushes to drum up compelling local sports stories in this dry, white season, the more times I meet a Spencer or a Madison who is juggling Little League, summer basketball, morning soccer, tae kwon do, swimming lessons, gymnastics, go kart racing and Vacation Bible School.

Two activities are plenty. Doesn’t anyone sit around eating Cheetos, listening to Metallica and playing Strat-O-Matic for 10 hours at a time anymore?

• That Ernie Harwell and Vin Scully must be cryogenically frozen until science can make them live to 175.

Maybe then I can hear a baseball game broadcast with dignity and not wear a mute button-sized hole into my right thumb. Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy, what is so freaking funny that we can’t escape the Beavis and Butt-head routine in the seventh inning every night?

I, therefore, representing the regressive thinker who would prefer to hop in a time machine, transport myself to about eight years post-bicentennial and live in that athletic, musical and political climate forever, hereby absolve myself from all connection with sports in 2007.

OK, so I’ll be back tomorrow. Sure, I’m taxed without representation. But being a D-list performer in this dysfunctional entertainment empire still beats working for a living.

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