For those of you who have come today looking for the usual batch of sarcasm, witty banter and booger jokes, my profound apologies. We're going to go in a slightly different direction this week.

In my daily work, I proofread news copy from all around the country. It's a nifty job, because I have my finger on the pulse of news events in just about every major city, and a lot of the smaller ones, around the United States. Sometimes, however, I could wish that a certain story had passed by my radar unnoticed.

Such was the case Wednesday afternoon, when I saw a story that made my heart sink: Veterans Stadium, the aging former home of the Philadelphia Phillies and Eagles, will be dynamited later this month.

I lived in Philly in the late '70s and early '80s, the Golden Age of Philadelphia football and baseball. When the Phillies won the World Series in 1980, I was there, right in the middle of a party so big it made Mardi Gras look like a church social.

Now, I KNOW the Vet was a crumbling wreck. The football field was the joke of the league, and the whole darned place seemed constantly on the verge of one catastrophic collapse or another. I know there were very well-thought-out economic reasons why the Vet had to go in favor of the two shiny new stadia.

That doesn't mean I have to like it.

I live in Houston, now, where we've gone completely bug-nutty with stadium- and arena-building in the last few years. Concrete monoliths are springing from the landscape at an alarming rate, as if giants are playing bocce ball with mountaintops.

In this case, however, it's no great loss. Our spanking-new baseball and football stadia have retractable roofs, the official keeping-up-with-the-Joneses item among major cities nowadays.

Granted, it's a great luxury to be able to slide a cap over things and turn on the air conditioner, especially on those 95-degree August days when the humidity is so high you can chew the air.

But consider this: you also can't look up at a slow spot in the fifth inning and watch a flock of pigeons spiraling around the upper decks looking for stray popcorn, or watch the stadium sparrows run off a crow who's poaching on their territory, or share the fellowship of huddling under umbrellas and plastic while a sudden summer shower sends the well-drilled grounds crew scurrying.

I guess what I'm saying is that sports aren't supposed to be sanitized. When we turn on the air conditioning and shut out the sun, stars, clouds and weather we turn a living game into little more than an exercise, an athletic exhibition. When we can't have the rain on our faces, we also can't enjoy that sudden ray of sun that shines through. We can't enjoy the crisp, ozoned goodness of the air after the lightning passes.

And don't get me started on the inherent inferiority of indoor fireworks to the outdoor kind. Showing a hardcore fireworks nut like me those puny "flame on a wire" indoor spizzlers is like throwing a starving dog a rubber bone.

Now, before I dismiss this week's seminar, we've got one more topic to cover: McDonald's.

As you should well know by this time, I've come out of the closet as a dieter. For more details on that, see "Diary Of A Fat Man" on the Food page of this site. So you'd think I'd be all in favor of the abolition of what the Food Police tell us is one of the gravest threats to our well-being, right?

Well, Bunky, you'd be wrong.

First off, let's get the facts of the case out of the way. The abolition of the super size french fry is a token gesture at best. The difference between a super size and a large order of fries is less than 100 calories and 3 grams of fat. Whoopee. As a hardcore fast-food munching friend of mine pointed out, the TRULY fry-addicted will just buy two larges, and thus actually end up with far more on their hips.

Second, don't think for a moment that McDonald's is doing this because they care about YOU, my special sauce-dripping brethren. They're doing this for the same reason they've done everything since Ray Kroc opened his first storefront: money.

The fact is, kids, we're FINALLY coming to realize what's bad for us. Oh, sure, we're still hammering down the Big Macs, but at least we know that they're not QUITE as good for us as a nice salad or a big, juicy apple. And, slowly but surely, more of us are cutting back on those junk-food binges, or at least salving our consciences by having a grilled chicken salad or a smoothie. The burger overlords didn't get where they are by not recognizing when and where there is a buck to be made, and when a product has lived its span.

The super size option had become a convenient punching bag for the Food Police and all the rest of the do-gooders who won't rest until there's a tofu chicken in every pot and the government sets our menus for us every day. So, McDonald's scores a double victory: they take away a big bunch of the opposition's ammunition and get to look like caring, concerned corporate citizens. It's a pretty cute trick if you can pull it off.

So, long story short (I know, too late), I applaud the fact that McD's is doing away with the super size, but only because of what it says about our society.

The only bad part is going to be watching the various sprout-heads preening and crowing about how they "faced down" the fast-food giant.

I welcome your comments, complaints, stories and professions of undying love. Large cash grants are also accepted. Just click here, type and send.

Previous Stories:

• Feb. 27, 2004: It's A Cat's Life
• Feb. 13, 2003: For Love Of Munchies
• Feb. 6, 2004: Fallen Idols And Flying Wings
• Jan. 30, 2004: Surviving The (NFL) Experience
• Jan. 23, 2004: I'm Eating, Here!
• Jan 16, 2004: Disturbing The Peace
• Dec. 27, 2003: The Weird Year In Review
• Dec. 12, 2003: Time's Running Out!
• Dec. 5, 2003: Gone Fishing