There was a time in the not-too-distant past when I found myself wondering if there were an uncharted island where we could send Jim McMahon and his ego—a place where we would never hear from the “punky QB” again.

For a while I thought San Diego was that place. Now, though, it’s beginning to look like Charger-land isn’t obscure enough to keep McMahon out of the national spotlight.

Earlier this week, BYU’s Bad Boy once again placed himself in the ever-sour limelight by using a San Diego reporter as a hanky.

Since the incident, editorial boards and columnists around the country have passionately chastised McMahon for his slightly sick action. They tell us McMahon’s blow was a blow on journalists, season-ticket holders and sports fans everywhere. They tell us a man whose name became synonymous with winning is now a loser. They tell us he should be suspended for the remainder of the season.

Please, tell us something we don’t know.

Using his patented brand of McLogic, No. 9 has once again put himself at the center of attention by whining about being the center of attention. Confusing, huh?

This incident should come as no surprise to the Chicago area, which learned long ago that McMahon was a brat. But the city of San Diego, a place famous for its poultry, needed several months before it found that it no longer has just a Chicken to annoy people at sporting events. Now San Diego has a Turkey, too.

As an aspiring professional sportswriter, I found the McMahon incident particularly disheartening. Does this mean that before every time I enter a locker room, I’ll have to scrub up and wear a sterilized robe? Either that or I’ll have to hire a thug to protect me while I ask the players questions about the game.

“Excuse me, Mr. McMahon, I’m Jeff Kirik, a reporter from the Walla Walla Wailer, and I’d like to ask you a few questions. Oh, incidentally, this is my bodyguard Charles Martin. And unless you feel like being on the wrong shoulder of one of his body-slams, I wouldn’t go reaching for that nose of yours.”

One solution to this McMahon crisis would be to allow him to be interviewed by only the journalists who merit such abuse.

Maybe Geraldo Rivera … “Today on Geraldo, we’ll be discussing public indecency. Jim, can you show us exactly how you did it?”

Or how about Chet Coppock …

Coppock: “We go live to the Man, the Mac, the Mouth—the guy who put the Eggo back in San Diego. Surely, one of the classier individuals yours truly has ever had pleasure of encountering. Here he is, a great friend of everyone on Coppock, once Chicago’s own King of Pain—the BYU Bomber, Jim McMahon. Hey, Jim, good buddy, I have to wonder what you were thinking at the time—what compelled you to do it?”

McMahon: “Do what?”

Coppock: “C’mon No. 9. Surely you haven’t forgotten the once famous, now in-famous, incident involving the expulsion of certain bodily—shall I say—materials from your nasal area. Why’d ya do it, Jimbo?”

McMahon: “My nose was running.”

Coppock: “Ladies and gentlemen, you heard it first, live on Coppock—the No. 2 sports talk show in the country according to USA Today.”

McMahon said he christened the reporter in that special way because it was either that or beat the guy up. Somehow it doesn’t seem right though.

If McMahon knew just how many defensive linemen out there have wanted to dismember the Mouth and have stopped themselves from doing so, he might develop a new respect for the idea of restraint. I’m sure each one of those defensive tackles would love to take one big blow—in one way or another—at McMahon.

The only thing we can do now is hope that Mac gets shipped to that deserted island in the Pacific where he can’t be the center of attention anymore—or better yet, maybe Kansas City.