Ladeez and gentlemen, children of all ages, I am here today to declare: I am sick and tired of Dennis Rodman.

I am tired of his body. I am tired of his body parts—those that are pierced, and those (few) that are not (yet) pierced. I am tired of his tattoos—and understand, I have nothing against tattoos. Truth to tell, I possess a very modest, very tasteful tattoo myself. But I am tired of Dennis Rodman’s tattoos.

While we’re at it, I’m tired of Dennis Rodman being naked. I am tired of him being with Madonna. For that matter, I am tired of the whole subject of Dennis Rodman and sex.

I am, too, tired of Dennis Rodman cross-dressing. I have nothing against cross-dressing. You want to cross-dress? Fine. I am just tired of Dennis Rodman cross-dressing. Especially the feather boa. Come to think of it, I do prefer Dennis Rodman naked as a man, rather than dressed up as a woman.

And, of course, I am so very tired of Dennis Rodman’s hideous hair.

Evidently, though, these attitudes of mine place me in the distinct minority.

Evidently, I am waaay out of step.

Evidently, shock and excess know no boundaries anymore, even in the redblooded world of sport. This week, Mr. Rodman’s memoir has jumped to the top of the best-seller list—arbitrarily placed in the non-fiction category.

I know, I know, I sound like a spoilsport—one of those old fogeys who had a fit when Joe Namath first dared wear a mustache. Oh, what is sport coming to? I suppose, in fact, we could argue that Rodman is simply the natural extension of everything different in sport that has preceded him, and that, come on, Frank, lighten up, sports is entertainment, and that Rodman is no more vulgar in his field of vulgarity than is Jim Carrey serving up Ace Ventura, Pet Detective on the silver screen, or Howard Stern on another part of your radio dial.

Let us be grateful for small favors. Not yet this playoff season has Mr. Rodman taken off his shoes before the game is over, as was his wont last year when he was at San Antonio.

So, perhaps I should just forget all the other stuff that takes place off the court. But no, there is a difference, I think, from Rodman and someone like Namath—or Charles Barkley or Andre Agassi or Deion Sanders today—who ask us to laugh along with them. Rodman knows no subtlety. He is merely outrageous, and, so, after a while, this not only irritates me, but more important, in the vernacular, it disses the sport itself.

But yes, Dennis Rodman has triumphed. He is a household curiosity. He is on Saturday Night Live! On Oprah! His book is number one on the best-seller list. The color of his hair is an issue in every game. Fine. But I’m sorry—there is a limit. Yes, by God, there is a limit. I’m sick and tired of Dennis Rodman. Have a nice day.