I pretty much felt this way after getting through a better portion of "The Darwin Awards," a book that regales the stories of people whose stupidity thrust them from our respective gene pool. True, the people in the book only came to their end after a tremendous feat of idiocy, but exactly how far am I from a moment like this? It's difficult to say, but I suppose I should be more worried about problems that are much more statistically likely to do me in. Like shower lighting and mad cow disease. I think I'll throw in liver disease in there for good measure. That one's particularly nasty because it keeps you from taking pretty much any prescription pill. At least all the good ones anyway.