More events feature bag of mixed nuts

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What I want to know is this: What is the nut job thinking about this morning?

Neil Horan, as in moron, presumably sits in a cell somewhere today. You would like to believe it is dark and dank and, in a perfect world, rats would be involved. You picture him now, his kilt riding above his knobby knees, his eyes vacant as he recalls what it was the voices in his head said to him.

Hey, ever consider running out onto a race course while cars were dashing around at the speed of blur?

Golly, what a good idea!

In the battle of dunderheads, there is a new leader in the clubhouse. The streaker at the British Open has nothing on Horan or, for that matter, herself.

Perhaps you saw the film clip. Horan is the imbecile who dashed onto the track at the British Grand Prix on Sunday, jogging down the track toward the race cars, carrying a placard that urged everyone to read the Bible. He was about 4 feet from being able to discuss it with Mark, Luke and John.

Oh, also, Horan wore a kilt. Just so he would stand out from all the other fans racing toward deity by idiocy, one supposes.

Now, we can agree on a few things here. For one thing, Horan has the IQ of a larva. For another, doesn't the Bible say something like "Thou Shalt Not Be a Bonehead?" For a third, it's lucky he didn't get himself killed, not to mention a driver or two.

But what I wonder is this:

Do these kinds of idiots have a hangover?

Did Horan wake up Monday morning, put his head in his hands and say: "Did I really do that? What was I thinking? I simply have to stop gargling with diesel."

Or did he wake up this way? Did he ask for the warden and demand his one phone call so he could call his best bud and gloat.

"Say, Nigel. It's Neil. Everything okay with you? Yeah? Yeah? Well, listen, I was just wondering ... how did you spend your weekend? That's nice. The country is so beautiful this time of year, isn't it?

"Um, Nigel, did you happen to watch the telly this weekend? Did you see any of the sports highlights at all? Did you notice anything, well, different concerning fans? No, not her. She took her clothes off and pranced around a golf course. They always do that at the British Open, don't they? What's so great about that? Are you going to get hit by a random putt?

"No, I mean the race. Yep. That was me! Can you believe it? All of England was watching me. I looked just like Braveheart, didn't I? I'm a celebrity. I'm a star."

At this point, of course, there is only one thing good old Nigel could say. "Neil, you're a loonybird."

Then he should hang up.

Is it just me or has the depleted ozone layer affected the brain matter of an increasing number of sports fans? It gets worse and worse.

One moment, everyone is sitting around, watching a ballgame, trying to decide if they want to pay another $79 for a Diet Coke, and the next, someone has decided the game needs a larger idiot factor. "I know," one fan says, "let's jog over to the centerfielder. He looks like a good guy."

"Great idea," the other says. "Maybe the cops will throw us to the ground and drag us off to jail. Everyone we know will think we're cool."

If you are one of these fans, and I doubt it, because, well, you're reading, then do us a favor.

Sit down.

Shut up.

And for goodness' sake, keep your clothes on.

What is it with these streakers? Isn't that as dated as, say, the mood ring? Yet, they're everywhere. At the British Open. At Wimbledon. In sneaker commercials. I don't know about you, but there is nothing about tense competition that gives me the urge to peel off my wardrobe and dance Swan Lake in the middle of the field. I'm sure we can all be grateful for that.

There is one guy, Mark Roberts, who claims to have streaked 271 times, including soccer games, rugby games, golf tournaments and a Wimbledon match featuring Anna Kournikova. Roberts has been banned from every sporting event in Britain. Once, when a policeman asked what it would take to make him stop, Rich said, "When they bring back hanging." Which sounds fair to me.

Mark, trust me on this. Chippendales isn't calling. Neither is Anna, for that matter. So invest in some Fruit of the Looms and leave the rest of us alone, okay?

Look, I love fans. The great portion of them are intelligent, opinionated and passionate, and they're completely thrilled to sit and watch. They put some paint on their faces from time to time, and they get loud. Still, they seem to grasp this without being told.

They ... aren't ... part ... of ... the ... show.

Increasingly, it's a hard concept to grasp. You probably remember William Ligue Jr., the numbskull who vaulted over the rail with his son and attacked Royals coach Tom Gamboa last year. The scariest part of it was that this wasn't in a sense of rage. Before he ran onto the field, Ligue called his sister on his cell phone and told her to watch the news.

Do you think Ligue and his son are ashamed of their actions, that it's one of those dark days no one in the house ever mentions? Or do you suspect they occasionally hoist one to the memory? Do they have a scrapbook with photos and clippings on the coffee table?

It would help, of course, if their friends and relatives took it as sworn duty to inform these people just what sort of goobers they are. No, it wasn't cute. No, it wasn't clever. And no, it wasn't attractive. It was the dance of the dunce. You should be ashamed.

Of course, it would also help if a few more athletes went Mike Curtis on the fans, too. That happened in a CFL game this year in Winnipeg. A guy ran onto the field, and the players beat him all over the field, which was harsh when you consider the field is 10 yards wider. The Dodgers' Jason Romano tackled a fan this year, too.

Maybe that should be the rule. Every time a fan runs onto the field, all rules are suspended. He has turned into a fox, and the hunt has commenced.

The next day, of course, he'd still call his buddies.

We saw it, they should say. You were a goober.

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