At 30,000 feet the mind has a tendency to wander. Staring out a six-inch square of double pane glass at a blanket of rippling clouds elicits an emotional clarity very few activities can match. I have looked out a passenger airplane window and had deep, soul-searching sessions regarding life and my own mortality.  About my own tiny impact on a planet that scars itself over millions of years. But my most terrible and horrifying realization came over the weekend, as my mind wandered back a week to what had been the most baffling and interesting NFL Draft in recent memory. As I thought about what had transpired over the course of two dreadfully long days, filled with more statistics and obscure athletes than any human being should be expected to endure, a realization came that shook me to my very core. I will tell you, dear friends, I have had trouble sleeping the past three nights. I can think of no better forum for sharing my discovery than this column. Breathe deep and read on if you dare, because:

MEL KIPER, JR. IS A ROBOT.

Take a second and think about it before you dismiss me as a lunatic. I will say it one more time for dramatic effect:

MEL KIPER, JR. IS A ROBOT.

Listen, I'm no robot expert. I can't tell you much about circuitry or flux capacitors and whatnot. I graduated from a state university with a liberal arts degree. I don't frequently occupy my time with thoughts of robots. But this thing came to me, just after finishing my Southwest Airlines complimentary dime bag of peanuts and shot glass of Diet Coke. Like I said, I'm no expert, but by God I don't need a degree from MIT to know a robot when I see one. To give you an idea of my robot sensory abilities (RSA), I attended Comic Con here in San Diego once, and could tell almost instantly that most of the dudes dressed up like Data from Star Trek the Next Generation were not, in fact, actual robots. Call it a gift if you want. I call it being observant.

Do you think the guy sitting next to me on this $70 flight would have the wherewithal to make a discovery like this? He's in his mid sixties, toothless, wearing green polyester pants and a baseball cap that proclaims "JESUS IS MY BOSS," all while shopping for water picks in Sky Mall. He would never notice a cover up like this.

There were 255 picks in the NFL Draft this year. Logic (my own highly developed and unscientific logic) would dictate that the final 100 or so picks are entirely up for grabs. Hundreds of players from big time programs and obscure universities around the country vying for the chance to be drafted in the seventh round and cut after the first minicamp. A large percentage of the players selected in the final rounds are not invited to participate in the major postseason all-star games or even compete at the scouting combines. Yet when the Oakland Raiders draft Gene McObsolete with the 247^th pick of the draft, ol' Mel isn't stumped. In fact, he stares into the camera, without the slightest hint of emotion or wit, and says something like, "I know he fills a position of need for the Raiders right now, but I think this pick was a stretch at 247. He is currently only rated eleventh on my board of best available long-snappers."

That just ain't right, people. It just ain't human. Some of you will say, "Hey lay off the guy! Is it a crime to be good at your job?"  My answer is that it isn't a crime to be good at your job, but it's easy to be good at your job when you have been programmed for that sole purpose. Besides, Mel Kiper has to be a robot. How else can one explain his paralyzing lack of personality or charm?

There was a moment in this year's draft coverage that will cement my argument as disturbing fact. Again, you probably missed it because you weren't paying enough attention. You'll find it if you go back through the twelve hours of draft coverage stored on your Tivo. There was a point during the second day of the draft when Mel had just finished a tirade about some selection he deemed "a stretch," and the camera was supposed to cut away from him. But it didn't. A producer's slow trigger finger kept us focused on Robot Mel a mere two seconds longer than we were supposed to, and gave me all the ammunition I need to prove my point. Looking off camera, no doubt at some pimple-faced MIT intern with a chest full of fancy robot fixing tools, Kiper mouthed these words from that Frankensteinish mouth of his: "oil can."

Even for a highly sophisticated robot, twelve hours of draft coverage is exhausting. Even robots get thirsty. I know, it sounds exactly like the Tin Man scene in the Wizard of Oz. You're going to think I copped this story from that decrepid old film and made it all, like modern and scientific and stuff. But it happened. Trust me, I'm an excellent lip reader. I can recognize instantly when women in even the loudest nightclubs reject me. Seriously, making this Mel Kiper discovery was as easy as deciphering "Ew, gross," on the lips of a club-going sorority girl who catches a glimpse of my Armitron watch and a whiff of my Old Spice aftershave.

Data says: Always draft the best available athlete.

It's time to take a stand people! Don't let the liberal media pull the wool over your eyes! There are highly sophisticated, artificially intelligent, humanoid sportscasters walking among us! If we don't take a stand against this infiltration today we could be in real trouble tomorrow. What's next, robot referees? Hey, how about robot strippers programmed to grind the pole for our filthy satisfaction?  If we don't take a stand we could even, God forbid, see a robot in the White House very, very soon. Getting Mel Kiper fired is a matter of utmost importance to our country's national security. Besides, giving away human jobs to robots is just un-American. I would be willing to accept our sportscaster jobs being outsourced and filled by Malaysian nine year olds, but that's where I draw the line.

So speak up! Write an angry letter and address it to the management at ESPN. Let them know that you are fed up with Mel Kiper and all the useless information stored in his memory banks. Tell them that it's about time they got a thinking, feeling human being to replace Mel Kiper and his insatiable appetite for the oil can and beefy offensive linemen from Southwest Maine State University. The very future of this country just may depend on it.