Sure, I've watched the show. It's very popular. The writing is clever and occasionally almost as funny as the demented laugh track might suggest.

        But it makes me cringe.

        Raymond chews with his mouth open. He dresses like a 9-year-old boy — shirt untucked, sleeves too long, cuffs unbuttoned — and acts like one, too. He cowers in constant fear of his witchy wife, and even his own children ridicule him with clever insults that fly right over his puzzled, thick head.

        He's a case of arrested development — who should be indicted for aggravated immaturity.

        What annoys me is that he is the perfect poster boy for the modern dad, as defined by pop culture. He's not king of his castle. He's not even a serf on his turf. He's just a clueless slouch on the couch, eating Fruit Loops and watching Bugs Bunny.

        You could see the era of the Wimpdad coming as sure as profanity on sitcoms.

Father Knows Jack

        As soon as TV Land was taken over by tough-talking, men-bashing liberated women, Father Knows Best turned into Father Knows Jack. Just like Raymond.

        Look, I can take a joke as well as the next guy — and we get lots of practice just watching TV, where men get to play a variety of roles as long as they are lamebrain, numbskull, nitwit or doofus.

        Every now and then, though, we stop drooling over our comic books long enough to secretly cheer when some throwback Neanderthal reminds us that God gave us a backbone for something besides watching football in La-Z-Boy recliners.

        Meet the anti-Raymond. His name is Hootie Johnson.

        He's the chairman of the Augusta National Golf Club, which is so “steeped in tradition” the members practically bleed formaldehyde.

        Augusta is a private club for — brace yourself — men only.

        Apparently, such things still exist, like islands that time forgot, as rare as fender skirts, PF Flyers, cigarette holders and TV comedies that the whole family could watch without blushing.

        Somehow, Augusta's policy has not been fumigated by women's rights groups. But they're working on it.

Tee it up

        Martha Burk of the National Council of Women's Organizations sent Augusta National a letter telling them to install ladies tees right now or else, buster.

        Mr. Johnson replied: “We will not be bullied, threatened or intimidated. ... We do not intend to become a trophy in their display case. There may well come a day when women will be invited to join our membership, but that timetable will be ours, and not at the point of a bayonet.”

        Wheeeeew. Right or wrong, I just have to admire the breathtaking audacity of the man. In a world of watered-down politically correct, he's 100-proof suicidally direct — as smooth as cheap whiskey in a dirty glass.

        Ms. Burk threatened the sponsors of the Masters on CBS. Mr. Johnson told the sponsors their participation “would no longer be required,” making his tournament the first without ads.

        So Ms. Burk went after the network. CBS replied that the Masters would be televised. Period.

        Ms. Burk also said the Masters should be moved to another golf course — which is like moving the Indianapolis 500 to Des Moines or relocating the Boston Marathon to Albuquerque.

        Eventually the cavemen will cave in and Augusta will admit women. It's the right thing to do.

        Besides, if they already have men like Raymond, women will be an improvement.

        E-mail pbronson@enquirer.com or call 768-8301.

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