Bo Knows How To Kill Bears, Alienate Fans

Have you been wondering what Bo Jackson is up to? Neither had I, until I read this article at ESPN.com. The first few 3 paragraphs are phenomenal. If he can take down the Boz at point blank range, why not a bear? The rest of the article is good, too. If you're like me -- and pray to your God that I'm not -- you were in awe of Bo Jackson when he was still playing, whether it was baseball or football. Aside from the bear-killing part of the article, I especially enjoy the fact that his wife wished to keep the name of the hospital where she works out of the article "because some of her colleagues do not know she is Bo Jackson's spouse." Nice work.

Co-worker: "Hey, Linda Jackson, why do you have that picture on your desk of Bo Jackson? Is he a relative of yours?"
Linda Jackson: "Who? I don't have any pictures on my desk. And if I did, they certainly wouldn't be of someone I've never met, heard of, or been married to for over 20 years."
Co-worker (pointing to picture): "But that picture right there is Bo Jackson. Number 34. Auburn."
Linda Jackson: "No it's not. I've never owned a picture of, met, or married anyone who was a Heisman winner and who ran a 4.18 40-yard dash at the 1986 NFL combine, but who then postponed his NFL career a year to play Major League Baseball."
Co-worker (pointing to picture): "But what about that one right there? He's wearing a tuxedo and you're wearing a wedding dress."
Linda Jackson: "What? No. No I'm not. It's one of those old-timely novelty pictures. Jackson's a common last name. That's not Bo Jackson. That's not me. I'm not married. Bo Jackson is probably dead. The man in the picture is a different Bo Jackson than the famous one, even though they look, talk, and act the exact same and are both former professional two-sport athletes who broke bats over their knees and rushed for 221 yards against the Seattle Seahawks in a Monday Night Football game on November 30, 1987. Is it hot in here? My name isn't even Linda. My husband's name is spelled B-E-A-U. He's a white French sculptor by day who hunts humans with compound bows by night. And you will be next on his list if this inquisition continues, that is, if I had a husband."

Here is another solid excerpt:

You want to see that anger bubble and boil? Go up to Bo and put your arm around him. He hates that -- strangers touching him, strangers who want to arm-wrestle, strangers who think they know him because they saw an advertisement 20 years ago. At one point, to demonstrate, he took my wrist in his hand and twisted, ever so gently.

It was enough.

"You've really got to get under my skin to get me to snap," he says. "But if I snap, God help you."

After reading this article, I am scared shitless of ever meeting Bo Jackson. I wouldn't know what to do. I mean, it's Bo fucking Jackson -- probably the greatest pure athlete our generation has known -- so I would have to at least say hi. At that point, though, things could go sour. I could try to run away, but there's no point because he would undoubtedly either (1) shoot me through the skull with a poison-tipped arrow (interesting tidbit: the poison is actually his own blood), or (2) catch me, since I'm guessing that, even at 45 and with a replacement hip, his 40 time is at least a half-second better than mine (I'm fast, but not that fast), and once he caught me, in his words, "God help [me]." I'm guessing he would -- in one swift and fluid movement -- palm my head, toss me in the air and catch me on the way down sideways, then literally snap me in half over his knee, and before so much as a drop of blood appeared, he would have already crushed my remains into a diamond with his bare hands. By the way, I think I know the Chicago suburb and gated community where he resides, and if you think for a second that I'm not going to the grave with that information, please look at this picture:

The man hunts in three-piece suits, people.