DON'T DO IT, Karl.

You know what I mean.Don't lower yourself.

Pro wrestling? You're kidding, right?

You're going to "wrestle" - using the term loosely here - Dennis "Rodzilla" Rodman Sunday night in San Diego?

Have you checked with Jerry about this?

Karl, you're the greatest power forward in the history of the NBA. You're one of the top 50 players ever to play the game. You've won two gold medals. You're on your way to the Hall of Fame.

Is this any way to behave?

Would Jerry West get in the ring?

Would Michael Jordan?

Would Dr. J throw chairs with guys named Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake or Macho Man Randy Savage or Disco Inferno or Rowdy Roddy Piper or Ultimate Dragon or Ultimate Warrior or Ultimate Hogan or whatever it is?

Would Bill Russell?

Would John Stockton?

Would Dennis Rodman?

Yes. But he's an idiot. He's entitled. He has an excuse. Because he wears tutus and pajamas around town and has turned his body into a giant Rorschach test.

Look at the company you're keeping.

If you feel like you fit in, start worrying. Karl, you don't even own a set of earrings. Some of these guys are waaaay past earrings.

There are certain rules of dignity that come with being one of the NBA's greatest. Putting on Spandex and prancing and strutting around a pro wrestling arena aren't one of them. They don't come up.

This is not to say that you aren't qualified for the ring. You've got a body that looks like it was chiseled out of mahogany. You've got the acting experience, even if it was forgettable (what was the name of that movie?). You've done some terrific flopping on the court, which will come in handy. Hulk Hogan doesn't do it any better. It remains to be seen how well you swing a folding chair.

They're using you, Karl. The pro wrestling people are using you to win the attention of Mainstream America, which usually looks the other way. The only pro wrestling most Americans see is when they stumble into it while they're changing the channel. Then they find it riveting. Riveting for the same reason Tony Robbins and Tammy Faye are riveting. Strange. Once you get past riveting, though, you have an overwhelming urge to take a bath.

(Editor's note: Attention, pro wrestling fans; stop what you're doing right now. Put down the pen. Throw that letter in the trash can. No matter what you write, no matter how many choke holds you promise to put upon his person, Mr. Robinson will not be changing his mind about pro wrestling. A nasty letter certainly won't do it. So don't bother writing. And he thanks you. Now, where were we . . . .)

If you want to get an idea of how undignified this whole business is, you should have tuned in Leno the other night when they had these four pro wrestlers on stage, posturing and glaring and lookin' bad, like high school bullies waiting in the parking lot after school. It wasn't funny or entertaining. But it was embarrassing. It came off like a bad skit. Bad dudes. Bad idea.

Now they're calling you "The Mauler," and, by the way, the moniker needs work. How about the Maulerman? Komet Karl? Mountain Malone? Wasatch Sasquatch?

Is it the money? Mr. Mauler, what are you going to do with another mil? Repaint the master bedroom? Buy another Harley? Finish your basement? Karl, if your house were any bigger it wouldn't be a house. It would be a mall.

Is it boredom? Find something else to do. Call Ty the Cop and kick some tires together. Drive a big rig. Hang out at the car dealerships. Make a movie. Go to the cabin in Alaska and catch a fish. Polish your Hall of Fame speech.

But leave the wrestling to Rodzilla and Ultimate Hogan.