In which PZ Myers ponders the age old question: why does anyone pay Gregg Easterbrook to write anything?
Myers sells him a bit short by calling him a sports writer. That is, according to some, the only thing he does well. But the sportswriting was always a sideline for his Seriously Wrong Writing About Serious Issues such as, you know, the joys of Intelligent Design. Whether he's right or wrong Easterbrook's writing usually has the sophistication of late night conversation among somewhat smart but incredibly stoned college freshmen.
