The Jewish-sounding Zachary Levi is actually a committed Christian, it turns out. And for the first time with anyone, I really want a celestial audience with him. Not enough to kill us both in a murder-suicide plot, which may eternally backfire, but following our respective and wholly unrelated deaths.

Viewers have long suspected something was different about 29-year-old Levi - his fondness for video games over girls, cherubic smile and utter lack of pretension. He could easily double for another cuddle-bear of wholesome sexuality, Dashboard Confessional's Chris Carrabba, and may have the chance now that Carrabba is going back to his original Christian band.

Having recently finished "Chuck" season three, I went looking for more about Buy More's top Nerd Herder, and found not only his fish-and-loaf distribution of "Nerd" T-shirts at Comic-Con but also his Christian frat house that doubles as a "home church." This was the greatest news since Jeremiah found out Buster Bluth, aka Tony Hale, attends his church in LA!

And then I thought, for the first time in my life, I'd really like to meet this guy in heaven.

Not Moses, not the non-Eddie-Murphy talking donkey, not even Jesus - I want to pop my cherub with some lovable schmuck who can thank a footlong sandwich for his career trajectory. The thought of chillin', or whatever verb appropriately describes the temperature in the other realm, with Sexy McRighteous made me really excited about dying and swapping energy with another glowing spirit-ball. To paraphrase Liam Neeson, I must be the worst Christian ever.

For all I know, the Levi who didn’t appear in Playgirl could have some weird theological fetish, like battling Satan’s minions through Wii Tennis or confessing his carbon consumption. Who knows what his business partner/pastor is teaching in that home church.

But he's so dreamy! Just like Chief Justice John Roberts.

So it is with great surprise that we learn about 3,200 Mexican federal police--nearly 9% of the total police workforce--have been fired since May 2010. Ay carumba! This represents a sea change, or at least a tidal basin change, for a government known more for knuckling under to influential cartels than to agents of positive change.

Many other governments have made a show of cracking down on their beloved internal legal incubi--men whose gift for deception, bribery, and criminal ventures seem almost genetic. From Kabul to Beijing to Moscow to Bogota to, well, nearly all of Africa, corruption is practically a way of life. But just as the British and Dutch knew, to create financial success, one must stamp the rule of law upon one's subjects; even despots must realize that the rackets can only inflate the balloon of success for so long.

Placing conquered tribes under the happy, if unsatisfying rule of law is a fine tradition for cultural imperialists--successful ones, at least--Rome implemented Pax Romana across its empire, providing its citizens with peace, military protection, and citizenship, as long as they paid their taxes, didn't cheat the government, and didn't attempt insurrection. Babylon too gave its conquered basic rights under the aegis of a serialized code of conduct.

The essential part of the mathematics of successful rule is the mutual agreement between the governed and governers: I won't fail to provide for you, as long as you obey me. Corruption always diminishes the caregiving ability of its perpetrators, eventually eliminating it altogether in order to enforce its rapidly decreased base of support and prevent the breakdown of essential societal structures--things that would have been avoidable had it not stooped to such venal injustices in the first place.

Mexico has the distinction of being the most apt illustration of a nation under complete control of corrupt officials. And like General Salazar's character from the movie Traffic, or Two-Face in The Dark Knight, crackdowns are often engineered by those opportunistic officials who have the most to gain by promoting sweeping reforms... of their criminal rivals' organizations and personnel, that is. And often such crackdowns have their own negative consequences, such as the creation of power vacuums, which quickly absorb the next set of cartel leaders trying to make their mark. The only way to tell if an official is clean or not is to wait and see; if he ends up maimed and dead, he was either clean and getting under someone's skin or he was a rival standing in the way of a power grab. While this implicates pretty much every living official in Mexico, it stands to reason; Mexicorruption is synonymous with "doing business."

Nevertheless, the eradication of such a large swath of Mexico's narco-traffickers and Zeta enforcers shows that someone has the cajones to push for the right kind of change, chomping hard on the tortilla of trafficking and the chalupa of corruption. We're not really sure who is responsible--really responsible--for these firings; it is probably best they remain nameless, lest they end up without a head and buried in the Sonora desert. But whoever you are, Caballero Blanco, you've earned our Imperialist of the Week award.

No, I'm not talking about a Bieber-Kardashian liaison, but rather the thinly-veiled advertisement for the Big Piano known as Big, when Hanks played Josh Baskin and Perkins played Susan. Remember their sexual tension?

That's a stupid question - of course you do. Chances are Big is in your parents' VHS library, and always a few millimeters down in your subconscious. It's an iconic movie about coming of age after a magic fortune telling machine catapults you into emerging adulthood, a satisfying career, and losing your adolescent virginity to a MILF 10 years before MILFs existed.

Think about it! Hanks was not mentally ready for intercourse in the post-carnival love scene, where he turns the light back on and takes off Perkins' bra, and hello, he was underage! And yes, Perkins didn't know that until she was wearing that gender-bending shirt and tie, while they were developing the choose-your-own-adventure interactive comic book, and Hanks tried to tell her about the Zoltar machine. But how did she react later, when Hanks left the office during the big presentation, and she followed him to Sea Point Park where he Zoltared again? She was heartbroken that she wouldn't be able to bang this stickball star from the sticks anymore!

The most outrage I've seen leveled at this unrepentant pedophilia came from my Rosie-lookalike high school choir teacher. We were taking a day off from practice as a reward for success (state champs, 1996), eating pizza and watching Big. When the love scene came up, the teacher simply blushed and made a joke about how awkward this was. Yes, watching foreplay with your students is a tad uncomfortable, unless you're a professor at Vassar. But foisting statutory rape on them? Reprehensible.

As you may have guessed, not all tweentimacy is celebrated in our society. The farthest Jennifer Garner goes in 13 Going on 30 is remarking that she's seen her guy's "thingy. And who hopes that depressed dad Kevin Spacey nails perky little Mena Suvari in American Beauty? If the notion of guys and (literal) girls hooking up didn't repulse us, Roman Polanski would still be partying with prepubescents in Pasadena.

Yet we continue to celebrate Big, and Tom Hanks' career as the eccentric Everyman continues abated. At least until he finishes the Da Vinci Code trilogy.

With apologies to that Scientologish book and movie, I have the Secret:  give one person in the venue a syringe of polio, and warn the crowd.

Infecting someone with Live Man Non-Walking disease is the perfect antidote to reckless raving.  There’s nothing the raver loves more than superlimbinality, with a close second to glowsticks.  The downside to forced sitting is denying the United States the opportunity to harness the vast reserves of green energy these engines of eccentricity produce every weekend, though bum cup-shaking can make up much of this.  Rob-Lowe-in-"Thank-You-for-Smoking" Syndrome is another risk, but Zen garden-tending unleashes itself on others only when the gardener relates his tending at sushi happy hour.

Of course, the person given this awesome power to FDR must be blameless, unbiased and in complete control of his passions (and yes, I mean "his" - come on, women?).  In other words, a figure like Jesus...'s fictional predecessor, Plato's philosopher king.  Someone who can see the Form of expressive dancing at concerts and make the call, unblinking and swiftly, when the DA emerges in the pit.  (Peripheral DAs, usually in the back of the crowd, are a subject for another day.)

You may rightly object:  What happens if a group of DAs decides to gang up on the Polionator, like suicide bombers on the Mossad or Agent Smiths on Neo in the second Matrix?  How will he (and yes, I’m firm on this male thing) manage to prick every prick?  Aren’t we just escalating the violence?

To which I respond: Shouldn't you be having sex with your ridiculously tall wife, Dennis Kucinich? The obvious answer is, the Polionator just starts sticking everyone as fast and recklessly as he can.

When concertgoers realize they can be unjustly pricked because of the DAs, they will police the crowd themselves to halt any wriggling that deviates beyond a personal sphere.  Women will kick the offenders (typically male) in the groin, and men will grab their arms and twist backwards, known as Biffing.  Even small transgressions will be swiftly dealt with, like Rudy Giuliani’s police department applying the Theory of Broken Windows.

And all will dance happily ever after. Also, perhaps, warily.

Is the Nehru ever "in"?

As Lisa Simpson might say, "Neh."

The Nehru is never acceptable. Not if you're a Mumbaikar barister with a penchant for exploiting slum dogs; not if you're a Western male, aged 59, vacationing in Bali spending your plummeting-value dollars on Thai import hookers and knockoff Aussie brews; not even if you're one or more of the Beatles (dead or alive).

Quite simply, the Nehru shirt is to acceptable as Dr. Evil is to reasonably achievable nefarious plots. It's the reason India was so backward before the Brits brought their unique imperialism to rule the subcontinent. It's the Greyhound buslines of suit apparel, the DSL of broadband, the weak vegan cousin of the chocolate mousse.

It's the jacket the Antichrist will wear.

Nehru shirts, jackets, or any variation thereof, are the lazy man's entrance ticket into a barely palatable textile shirtgatory, a visible statement of fashion agnosticism--not brave enough to go full-tee, not devout enough for a collar. You're lukewarm, baby, and not worthy of being kept in God's sweatshop, much less His mouth.

Wearing the Nehru implies a faux-pop-mod-minimalist aesthetic, but where's the proof? After all, you've only donned this foreign-ish item in the hope of besting your slack-jawed yokel competitors, out-mint juliping William Faulkner, or challenging Bobby Jindal (the American/Republican/Southern Jawaharlal Nehru) to a fisticuffs duel, and impressing your late 1960's music/entertainment devotees, but you have no prior claim on the sensibilities that defined our cultural forbears and contemporary heroes. You're saying you abhor the blight of pin-striped formalism and appreciate the exotic splendor of subcontinental parliamentary politik. And with the right shade of skin, or if you're Sammy Davis Jr., you may have a chance at pulling it off.

But you're not, and you don't, so you can't.

What you're really saying is that you're rather good at wiping out old ladies' savings account with a glitzy Telethon of Love, Benny Hinn style. Think about the modern connotations. When you think Nehru, the image that comes to mind is not a Monkee or Johnny Carson nyucking it up on late night, but the Tim Robbins' "Ian" character in High Fidelity, all greasy, graying ponytail, patchouli stench, and world-pop jungle music on the stereo. And do you really want to stroll down the Steven Seagal backalley, with all its weight gain and weird sexual deviancy baggage? That's not a light burden, my fashion forward friend.

If we have to appeal to your base instinct for categorizing everything along a moral plank, then consider this: pop fiction evildoers are often the leaders in Nehru torso-wear; Dr. Evil, Bond villain Ernst Blofeld, and Dr. Who arch-nemesis The Master all secreted Nehru-ism, as if it was a glandular outgrowth of their own demented desires. Villains have their charm, but for all their bluster and schemes, in the end their only real talent is in pairing with a midget to perform Will Smith parenting parody raps. And that's what we call "dated," the hipness equivalent of pretty much any S&L skit from the late nineties.

Like overwrought TV villains might say, you'll Neh-rue the day if you pick this emasculated buttondown over a solid two-piece. Leave it on the Goodwill rack, or better yet, fiddle while Nehru burns; you're better off saying no.

The last Supreme Court judge to make it through confirmation without having actually, you know, judged, also happened to have the most rad robe at the Clinton impeachment hearings.  So we expect big things from White House shyster Elena Kagan, another judicial neophyte sworn in this weekend as Long John Silvers' replacement.  You've come a long way, Lenie - you're our Imperialist of the Week.

Many other great leaders didn't deserve their jobs, either, but grabbed history by the scruff and threw it headlong into a pile of inevitability, like a freshman getting hazed. Hitler was a "masterly" artist who drew postcards before new German boundaries.  Jimmy Carter, who would later become history's greatest monster, was a peanut wrangler who taught young children in Sunday school to do what Jesus would do - get beat up on the world stage.  And ho-hum Ali sure as heck shouldn’t have landed hunky, gorgeous Roberto on "The Bachelorette," but that promiscuous Pole’s pixie dust overwhelmed the Spanish speaker’s Santeria, just like John-Paul II and Castro.

Kagan has shown she has the chops to join this illustrious crowd.  Barely 50, she’s already strong-armed her rabbi into giving her a feminist bat mitzvah, sailed to tenure despite a meager publishing record on the University of Chicago law faculty, and pistol-whipped the military for its discrimigaytion as dean of the Harvard Law School.

Most imperialistically, this jovial Jew singlehandedly "fooled the nation's highest judges" by fudging a medical group’s appraisal of the intact D&X procedure, casually known as partial-birth abortion, leading to the eventual Supreme Court imprimatur on the procedure as "medically necessary."  Though Congress later banned D&X, a decision upheld by the dreamy Roberts court, the fact that a sneaky political hack could orchestrate such a brilliant con on the courts shows Kagan's clinical determination to win at all costs.

The raging debate over whether Kagan's slugging abilities show her sexual proclivities obscures the more fundamental truth that she plays political hardball.  Jon Lovitz's fraternal twin will surely be lobbing up hard-hitting opinions masked by toothy grins for the next three decades. Cultural Imperialist salutes you, Shorty, and looks forward to your reign.

Wait, what was that baby talk you just spit up on me?  "Duh-duh-duh"?

More pressing an issue than violent, drug-addicted Mexicans overrunning the good people of Arizona is this:  A whole generation, largely female, is shortening their anecdotes with gibberish. Call that Indian who shed a tear for pollution, because he’ll be bawling for the piles of rubbish littering that portion of the American lexicon dealing with the logical continuation of a series of descriptions.

The usurpation of the noble "et cetera" and the elegant "and so on" can be traced to Kirstie Alley before her girth-fueled celebrity, in the final season of "Cheers," when Rebecca Howe recounts her reasoning for going on a cruise with "yada yada yada."  The devious abbreviation flummoxes Woody Boyd, whose memory of her original statement had been replaced by the "yada."  The phrase was more famously used by George’s girlfriend in Seinfeld to conceal her affinity for shoplifting, associating that phrase with women of ill-repute.

With "yada," every woman is a reputress.  But it’s not enough to drop a deuce on the English language for some who are in an even bigger hurry to get to the point - it must be infested with tapeworms.  My girlfriend is fond of "duh-duh-duh" to shorten her sentences, saving her three syllables and me the need to stop paying attention.  Which gives me an idea...

Just as Lysistrata convinced the women of Greece to withhold sex until the men negotiated an end to the Peloponnesian War, men should withhold their attention from their women whenever they unleash the yada, the duh or any similar nonsensical placeholder for an actual thought.  Jack Donaghy demonstrated that women get turned on by "handsome men patiently listening to them," so it follows they’ll clean up their language when we turn our heads away.

Of course this could completely backfire if women start talking more, refusing to abbreviate, and so on...