Coors Light bills itself as the "coldest tasting beer in the world."

Is that the best they could do? An executive stood up and said, "We're not the lightest beer, and we're certainly not the best-tasting ... To hell with it; we'll be the coldest! Turn those fridges down, and I mean way down."

It all started when M&M's went with, "Melts in your mouth, not in your hands."

Has anyone ever had a problem with chocolate melting in their hands? I can't remember chocolate staying in my hands long enough to melt.

But everyone has to stick out:

Dan's Paper Clips -- titanium reinforced for your toughest clipping needs. Acme Glass -- transparency you can depend on. Jason Love's Blog -- you would have to eat ten bowls of bran cereal to match this kind of fertilizer.

Is it just me, or do "special occasions" happen every week? Parent's, Valentine's Day, National Pet Week. Here's one: Boss's Day Isn't that Monday through Friday?

And the birthdays just keep comin'. My nephew starts the countdown two months in advance: "Fifty-four days till my birthday. Have you started savin' up?"

And his mother -- my sister -- just giggles. So I do save up. I save up and buy drum sets, police sirens, sonic-boom zappers. As a courtesy, I include batteries that keep going and going and going.

I even carry presents in my car just in case. Maybe that's how Santa got started, toting gifts around until he finally said, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. There will be one day a year when everybody gets one present ... if they're good."

In my trunk you'll find Barbie Dolls, G.I. Joes, and other role models to show our children what's important. Couples get his-and-her presents, which of course are always for her. His-and-her toiletries ... that's like a his-and-her wrench set.

Oompa loompa doompadee doo. I've got another puzzle for you.

How many times does a child graduate? I miss work every other Wednesday to fling high school caps, Girl Scout berets, orthodontic head gear. There's pageantry for everything.

I even attended the birthday of a one-year-old. A one-year-old! It was a surprise party, because when you're one year old...

What do you get for a baby anyway? A little fake finger to chew on? A set of car keys? Ding-aling-aling-aling. I love kids, but I'm not real big on babies. I don't even like the smell of clean diapers. So it goes.

During the holidays, we get time off from work, but we have to spend it with relatives, so it's kind of a wash. Billy Graham said that heaven is a never-ending family reunion, which is funny because I describe hell the exact same way.

On Valentine's Day, Lexus suggested that a man buy for his wife a luxury automobile. That's setting the bar a little high, isn't it? Guys, it's a dark day when your wife walks outside and sees the bow on her neighbor's Valentine Car.

"Oh ... well. It's not quite my edible panties, but -- "

Men, we oughta march on Lexus with flaming maces. "Remember the alimony!"

At Ralphs I saw a greeting card for Belated Valentines. Guys, if you miss Valentine's Day, that card has pretty much got to say one thing: "Visa." And how come there's a section of cards for New Babies? Do they come some other way?

Hallmark loves to play the guilt card. Listen to this radio ad:

"Remember the day you were born?" Insert beating heart. "Of course you don't." Woman writhing in pain. "But I'll bet your mother does." Baby crying. "Hallmark: Because your mom deserves the very best."

I can't take it! Here's my car. Ding-aling-aling-aling.

It's the birthdays that do you in, though, every year observing the achievement of not dying. Maybe that was a big deal in the Dark Ages, but these days smokers see 90.

"Hey, it's Mr. Carter's birthday again. What is he, 100? 200? Last year I bought him a plant. He still argues with it."

Oompa loompa doompadoo dee. If you are wise you'll listen to me.

When I overthrow the government -- and it won't be long; watch the news -- I will enact the following changes:

* All December birthdays will be transferred to August, a hot, humorless month with no holidays. December weddings will be a felony.

* Families will be limited to three birthday parties a year. Parents with copious children can use a demerit system to choose the "winners."

* Hallmark will be rivaled by "Jack's Cards: When you only care enough to make a gesture."

* If couples divorce, there will be a recall of all wedding presents, every last napkin ring and candle snuffer. A reverse registry will be provided.

We'll have to stop there because I'm running out the door to my nephew's birthday. He's getting the Busy Town Everything Flashes and Beeps Total Chaos Play Set.

Like the Oompa doompa doompadee dooooooo.

Someone suggested that I take a long walk on a short pier.

That was Yahaira. She used to be my wife; now we're just good friend (she got demoted after our divorce).

"Let's have an adventure," she said.

And what made more sense than overnight camping for two people who between them don't own a tent. We borrowed supplies from an over-trusting neighbor and arrived at the campground shortly after eleven ... p.m.

"We got a little lost," said Yahaira.

Pam, the register lady, smelled like hickory cigarettes. She chuckled country-style, but I could see her thought bubble: What a coupla twits.

Pam pointed to our campsite "one mile yonder as a crow flies." Yahaira and I stared into the night with Elvis lips.

"What about security?" said Yahaira.

Pam waffled like the president without his earpiece.

"Well, patrol doesn't actually go out that far, but there's a security gate. You'll be fine."

Yahaira squeezed my arm. You could hear the music from Friday the 13th: Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

We drove to the "security gate," a metal bar certain to keep away killers ... UNLESS THEY'RE ON FOOT. The pole was fastened with a Master Lock that could withstand anything up to but not including its publicly known combination.

Two Confederates drifted by with half-crumpled cans of Budweiser. One serenaded Yahaira, who looked to me for help. I wished we had brought a grownup. So it goes.

Safe behind the Barricade o' Death, we followed our headlights to stake number three. Yahaira took to striking, or pitching, or whatevering, the camp; I was in charge of swearing at the fire.

"What is WRONG with this wood?"

I spread the paper, sprayed chemicals, melted my sneaker -- nothin'. How do forest fires start in the first place?

Fire seemed urgent on account of the crunching sounds. Every few minutes, a branch would crack in a way that made your neck-hair pay attention. Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

Yahaira suggested -- okay, I suggested, I suggested -- that we go home. But we had driven all night and I had already lost a shoe ... We agreed to sleep in the truck beside our protective steak knife. With a deep breath, we drifted off and forgot the whole thing ever happened.

Until Yahaira woke up in a terror.

"What's the matter?" I said.

She had no air to answer. Yahaira's nightmares get that way. It's endearing when you're not stuck in Children of the Corn.

"There's a dead body," she said. "Men are looking for us. I want to go home."

"NOW?!"

It was two a.m., the witching hour when rednecks are loosed from local taverns wielding rifles and scythes. In muddy socks I repackaged our campground while Yahaira, by show of support, revved the engine.

We skidded through the security gate, which was -- surprise! -- wide open. It wasn't till the 101 that we rested our sphincters and reflected: "Remember the woman's eyes when we asked about security? What about the open gate? Do you suppose Velma and Scooby are okay?"

Yahaira and I plopped down at Denny's, I in one shoe, Yahaira in her PJs. We smelled like low tide. And there at our sticky table we laughed and gorged and remembered a pointer from Dave Barry: "Camping is nature's way of promoting the hotel industry."

Yahaira and I had spent some quality friend-time fearing for our lives together and have already planned our next trip to "almost go camping."

At five a.m., we hugged and parted ways. Somewhere in the distance (hundred miles as a crow flies), the sun pried through the oak trees to reveal a hastily abandoned campground with one melted sneaker, an unused steak knife, and two half-crumpled cans of Budweiser.

Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

* Why is there boxing at the Goodwill Games?
* They say the universe is expanding. What is it expanding onto?
* What are we supposed to do when they issue air quality warnings? Hold our breath?
* Why do we call it a walk when the batter jogs to first base and becomes a runner?

* A concert is where they ruin all the songs you enjoyed on the radio.
* There is no "I" in team, but there is a "me."
* Judging by our political decisions, hindsight is 50-50.
* "Royal gala"..."Rome beauty"..."red delicious"...apples are always looking for that edge.

I noticed that my blue jeans were starting to fray, so I went to the mall to replace 'em. Have you been shopping for jeans lately? They've all got faded thighs, frayed edges, paint splotches, holes. They might as well have sh#%! stains on the seat. Turns out that I didn't need new jeans; the old ones just needed more holes.

* When you have children, you become a dictator. You answer only to God. You make the laws, you enforce the laws, and you expect nothing short of total submission. You don't need reasons either. Your entire rationale is, "Cuz I said so."

"Did you disobey me? ... You're grounded." And off to prison they go.

* It's weird when your friends have babies. You ask them to play cards, and they're like, "No, man. I've got to watch the kids." How about a football game? "Sorry. Can't do it." You want to hear a joke? "No, I've got kids." These are the same people who just yesterday would find things on the floor and smoke them.

Last time I scrapped was the fourth grade, when Benji Leva spat on my sister at the bus stop. I pulled the bully's raincoat over his head, kicked him in the backpack, and bolted to school as fast as I could.

Would you believe I had no formal training?

That all changed when I met welterweight champ George Sylva, who taught me the ropes (and how to stay off of them). I had a few things working against me. One, I am skinny; two, I'm white; and three, my HMO is so weak that it covers only an apple a day. So it goes.

The whole gym worked out in three-minute intervals. When the round-clock buzzed, everything stopped like The Twilight Zone. It's hard to describe the tricep pain without using the F-word. Three minutes doesn't seem like a long time, but when you're shadow boxing it's like 180 seconds.

George ordered some ab drills that he had learned in the navy. Until then I had seen medicine balls but didn't know how much I despised them. And when I absolutely, positively could not go on, he ordered ten more crunches.

"Body blows," he said. "You'll thank me later."

Every time I dropped the jump rope, I had to jog a lap; and during that process, I made a discovery ... You know what works just as well a jump rope? An imaginary jump rope. Same exercise -- no friggen mind games.

One day George showed up with funny eyes and said, "I think you're ready."

Sparring, for the record, is a time for boxers to hone their technique. It may look friendly on account of the headgear, but getting punched is a lot like getting punched.

George called on 16-year-old Hugo Centeno, a junior gold medallist who was -- gulp -- 56 and 0.

"He's skilled enough to control his sting," said George.

Oh. Well. That's encouraging.

First, I hate it when ninth-graders are taller than me. Second, I was old enough to be his ... spiritual advisor. Stepping into the ring, I mentioned my HMO, but Hugo didn't get it. The round clock buzzed and George pushed me out of the nest.

I sidled up to Hugo, peeking through a gap in my gloves. Hit him?! I don't even know him. Jab. Jab jab. Nibble jab.

George shouted from the side: "You're trying to swim without gettin' wet."

Did I have Dr. Phil for a trainer? "You can't change her feelings. That's like trying to touch up the Mona Lisa with motor oil."

THWACK! Hugo punched my eyeball, and I immediately recalled all jabs.

"Think of your arm as a piston," said George. "It's got to snap back."

"You mean like my head?"

The second round was mostly hit and miss: Hugo hit me; I missed him. Then, at the risk of walking away like something by Picasso, I decided to throw as many punches as I could, to win by volume.

This is called "punching yourself out." Hugo waited for my triceps to catch fire, then introduced The Counterpunch. And George was wrong: It didn't feel like a car wreck at all; it was more like a plane crash.

In the third and final round, Hugo played the bongos on my noggin. And right there, in the midst of that flurry, something beautiful happened: I opened my eyes and breathed. In, out, Zen, out. My courage grew not with every punch I landed but with every punch I took. I finally stopped running from the bus stop.

After the fight, I drove to the park and looked at the stars. It was still light outside: The stars were in my head. And there I reflected.

Whereas I used to find boxing a silly sport -- grown men fighting over a belt -- I learned that most boxers don't fight for the trophy; they fight for that look in George's eyes, the freedom to walk the earth with nothing to prove.

I'm the newest member at Sylva's Gym. They call me Cinderella Man because that's how I fight -- like Cinderella. And even though I take the worst of the exchanges, I'm getting better. Someday I may even fight a grownup.