It's taken almost 45 years, but I now know exactly what my station is in life: I'm the first guy people think of to call when there's a streaker at Wal-Mart.

The call came across the police scanner on Tuesday, and the astonishment in the dispatcher's voice wasn't dry yet, when people were coming up right and left saying, "Hey, you'll want to hear this, there's a streaker at Wal-Mart."

Then came the cell phone calls. There must have been people in the parking lot agonizing over which number to punch in first, 911 or 5131.

Let me ask you something, why do you think I would care? What is there about some textile-challenged dude outside of a discount store that makes you think of me?

Is that all I am to you? Some doofus who traffics in lowbrow circumstance, who swims among the lowest common denominator of human existence feeding off the scraps of humanity's bottomless chum bucket?

Well, let me tell yoouuu something. I have feelings, too. I have an intellect. I have more to offer than rube commentary on a surplus of skin. All my life I have struggled to succeed. I have toiled at the wheel of journalistic ethos, logic and wisdom. And do I get any credit for this? Oh, no. All I get is, "Hey, better call Tim because there's a streaker at Wal-Mart."

I have a mind, folks. I can talk intelligently about Social Security reform, I can list the known carcinogens in coal-fired generating plants, I know the latest archaeological findings at the ancient city of Nineveh. And you care about none of this.

But my goodness, let some fella go wagging his way down the sidewalk in a retail district, and you can't hear from me fast enough.

Well, from now on, it's going to be different. No longer am I going to stoop to your level. I hereby resolve to use this space only for discourse that has some modicum of intelligencia, to use the power of the print to elevate, not debase, the human condition, to educate, to enlighten, to...

Oh, all right fine, here's your freaking streaker column.

After all, I can't recall a streaker since that guy at the Suns game back in the early '90s. And that went well. He made it to the top of the clubhouse before he was corralled, as I recall.

This is Reason No. 246 of why I could never be a police officer. The thought of chasing a naked man in public has no appeal. In private either, I should hasten to add. And when you catch him, who's going to pat him down? Not me.

The photo on the front page was priceless. There was the streaker up against the wall with three other guys standing around who looked as if they'd just come out of an upper level college course in Averting Your Eyes.

Apparently there was some behind-the-scenes drama between Wal-Mart security and the photographer. A security guard approached the photographer and demanded he hand over his film.

How precious is that? Where else but Hagerstown, home of the last remaining mullet in captivity, would a photographer these days be asked for his "film."

If I were the photographer, I would have said, "No you can't have my film, but I'll give you my daguerreotype plates and you can come over to my house later for a game of pinochle while we listen to the Victrola. Now you'll excuse me, I need to get into your store to buy a bottle of Dr. Caldwell's Syrup Pepsin and some mustache wax. This is Jewitt & Knapp dry goods store, isn't it?"

I suppose he could have been speaking metaphorically, though. After all, it is a little awkward to say "I'm sorry, sir, but I'll have to confiscate your SanDisk Ultra II 512 megabyte secure digital card."

By the way, too bad the guy - who calmly dropped his pants at one end of the shopping center and strolled to the other - didn't make it as far as the greeters, don't you think? That would have been cool. "Good morning and welcome to Wa..." and about that time the bifocals come into focus and, "...EEEEEK!" Best they could do was let him in and steer him to the aisle where they keep the underpants.

I loved the police quote, that the man appeared "lucid, at points." Which points? When he was naked in front of Pier 1 or when he was naked in front of Circuit City? Hopefully, he didn't do any window shopping; that's the last image you want to see pressed up against the plate glass.

OK, that's it. There's the story. I hope you're happy, because I'm not proud of it.

Tim Rowland is a Herald-Mail columnist.