The white quarterback got picked first, but when isn't that always the case? Hundreds of young men bench-pressed, ran sprints, displayed their throwing ability, jumped high, jumped long and jumped when people told them to jump. All in hopes of being drafted into the finest gladiator league we have going nowadays--The National Football League. But as I saw young men with cell phones and cell friends on the big day, I couldn't help thinking of the other kind of draft. The one men aren't so willing to try out for.

With a good chunk of the reserves getting called into the Kosovo area, we inch a tiny bit closer to the D-word. I wasn't around when the last one happened, and I hope I'm not around when the next one comes. My dad, Sam, told me a vague story of when he reported to the draft board. He basically stayed in school during the entire Vietnam war, so that and his astigmatism plus a trick leg or two kept him out of military service. In fact, both of my grandfathers successfully avoided serving in World War II. One was a wheat geneticist and the other was a owner of a grain and feed outlet. I guess you could say I have precedent for legal draft dodging.

When I was 18, I filled out the information on the Civil Service postcard, dropped it off at my local post office, and never gave it another thought. We had just mowed down the Iraqis in Desert Storm without a using a draft, so I figured I was in the clear. It wasn't like we were going to jump into another war right away. We were in a recession, for Greenspan's sake. Other little flares of wars broke out later including Iraq II--Saddam's Revenge, Bosnia, and Somalia, but nothing so demanding as to call on little old Chris for military service.

The thing is that I would report to the draft board if they called me, even though I think Hair is a damn good musical. While I excel at complaining, I'm pretty lame at being a protester. I don't like people who bring signs to sporting events let alone a pent-up mob on a street corner chanting "Hell no, we won't go. Until it's lunch, we'll yell a bunch. I have a date at eight, but until then, it's war I hate." Only when protesters start lighting themselves on fire will I be impressed. Those Buddhist monks do everything better.

After years of grappling with the hypocrisies and injustices of our government, I came to the conclusion that this country is probably the best one around. There are many laws I'd like to be changed, many social issues I wish would get more attention, and more money going to education than defense. But if the draft came into effect and that omnipotent computer found the information I stuck on that postcard as an eighteen year old kid, I'll show up for the physical. I'd try to get a job manning an army warehouse or something involving me not shooting at anyone.

But hopefully it won't come to that. Hopefully, the only draft issue I have to worry about is whether the Chiefs can pick up that player which will catapult them into the Superbowl. Hopefully, my abstinence of gun use will be allowed to continue. Hopefully, we will figure out that the people we despise and hate have just as much of a right to hate and despise us. Unfortunately, hate usually leads to killing. It's one of those human nature things that we just can't seem to shake, or was it that monolith's fault from 2001?

The football draft has come and gone, and we'll see if the new beasts can make an impact among the other beasts. After all, my favorite wars have always involved a pigskin and shoulder pads, last around three hours at a time, use referees, and don't ask me to come in to kill the enemy.

But somewhere, there's a postcard with my name on it, and the rules can change whenever they want them to change.

Chris Jungle has been advised by his agent to holdout for a lucrative contract if he gets drafted.