Tell me who are you? (I really wanna know!!)

Sooner or later we all have to face the big questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What is the meaning of life? Why won't the Packers take Brett Favre back?

The biggies that shake our very foundation and leave us grasping for answers. I wrestled with just such a quandary recently. I stood in front of the mirror, stared intently into my own eyes and asked the very question that had been troubling my soul for nearly three weeks.

"Mr. Incredibly handsome and smart man in the mirror," I began, "Do you think ... well is it possible ... Am I ... a Cylon?!!!!"

I know, I know. We all have to ask ourselves this very question at some point in our lives. And after watching about 300 straight hours of Battlestar Galactica DVD's that my buddy Dale lent me, I knew that it was my turn.

I simply had to find out if I was really an unemployed stay-at-home Dad who plays college football video games and drinks gallons of coffee, or if I was actually a Cylon robot superagent placed on this planet to unknowingly usher forth the Apocalypse and end all human existence. Thanks to my tireless viewing of Battlestar seasons 1 through 4 every fracking night during the past month (not that I was addicted or anything), I am now keenly aware that there are Cylon agents living among us.

They look like us. They act like us. They pilot Colonial Vipers through star nebulas like us. Some of them don't even know they are Cylons. They go through their entire lives in blissful ignorance, until the fateful day the Cylons turn on their radio, play a really creepy song, and bamo! They kick into gear and begin shooting Admiral Adama and holding secret meetings in the air lock.

So you can see my concern right? I have to admit that I often hear creepy songs in my head. Why just last week I was humming a tune, when to my own horror I realized it was the theme song to the Doodlebops!! Aaaaah!!

I haven't figured out the answer just yet, but I have come to one really embarrassing realization. If I am indeed a Cylon superagent, then the Cylons are going to be very disappointed with my model. I like to consider myself witty and charming and full of zest. My relatives often use another term to describe me. Namely useless. I can't fix anything, I can't shoot anything, and I sure wouldn't be very useful during an outright war on humanity. I can't chop wood, I have absolutely no knowledge of machines and my idea of repairs consists of placing broken objects in a corner and saying witty things like, "Man, it sucks this is broken."

Here's an example of my useless charm -- A few months ago our backyard fence began falling down. My solution: Hold it up with a lawn chair and various bags of leaves. My father-in-law took one look at the fence and returned a few days later with a stake. He then hammered the stake into the ground, and voila, the fence was fixed. I, um, wouldn't have thought of that.

So here's hoping that I'm not a defective Cylon superagent, and merely a screwup of the human variety. And here's a warning to everyone out there. There is still a member of the Final Five to be revealed, so watch your back! Whatever you do, avoid creepy songs and wait, what's that? ..... "Doo doo doo doo doo duu duu doo doo ... We're the Doodlebops oh yeah! ..."

OH MY GODS!! IT'S HAPPENING!!! SAVE YOURSELVES KIDDIES!!

- Dave