All my life I have struggled to succeed. I have toiled at the wheel of journalistic ethos, logic and wisdom. And do I get any credit for this? Oh, no. All I get is, “Hey, better call Tim because there’s a streaker at Wal-Mart.”

I have a mind, folks. I can talk intelligently about Social Security reform, I can list the known carcinogens in coal-fired generating plants, I know the latest archaeological findings at the ancient city of Nineveh. And you care about none of this.

But my goodness, let some fella go wagging his way down the sidewalk in a retail district, and you can’t hear from me fast enough.

Well, from now on, it’s going to be different. No longer am I going to stoop to your level. I hereby resolve to use this space only for discourse that has some modicum of intelligencia, to use the power of the print to elevate, not debase, the human condition, to educate, to enlighten, to…

Oh, all right fine, here’s your freaking streaker column. —Tim Rowland —Writing just to keep the ‘streak’ alive (Herald-Mail)