I enjoy a good favorites list. More than that, I love attacking the judgment—the haywire, pitiable judgment—of someone who thinks they’ve compiled an airtight list. The list wizards behind GQ’s recent “25 Coolest Athletes of All-Time” may think they have the upper hand on all things list-y, but as a saucy George Costanza once blurted out on Seinfeld, “they weren’t counting on this brain.”

You see, I happen to know who the 25 Coolest Athletes of All-Time really are. The pantheon was foretold to me in a dream by the late, great Evel Knievel—who made GQ’s list! How could he not?

Actually: no. These are just my opinions, my correct, factual opinions that are gospel. Fundamentally, GQ’s list is sound. Who in their right mind would argue against the well-deserved inclusion of Muhammad Ali (the Greatest/The Louisville Lip), Michael Jordan (Air Jordan), Bjorn Borg (Ice Borg), Joe Namath (Broadway Joe), Pele, and surfing-hunk Kelly Slater, whose disservice of a nickname “Slats,” is the least cool thing about him.

Others on the list, like Allen “The Answer” Iverson and “Pistol” Pete Maravich, are controversial entries; but Iverson’s antics, profuse tattoos, and pathological problem with authority make him dangerously endearing and relatable to anyone who ever listened to Rage Against the Machine or served time in detention; Maravich, in simple terms, was Steve Nash long before Steve Nash ever knew what the devil a Steve Nash was.

I’m down with all of the above because they are right.

I take great umbrage with Tom Brady, Mario Andretti, Tim Lincecum, and Arnold Palmer being packaged and sold to us as “cool.” Who is GQ trying to kid with this schlock? Tom Brady wears tasteful sweaters a la GQ ads and has never made me laugh—no points for being on Family Guy. Mario Andretti, and all racecar drivers, are watered-down, low-lying versions of Evel Knievel; and Arnold Palmer didn’t even have a trashy retinue of mistresses on the side (which is not cool, ethically speaking, but is cooler than playing golf and not having any mistresses).

Tim Lincecum, though, is an interesting case. He has the physique of a strung-out kid who works the graveyard shift at a tollbooth, but his arm is legendary—especially now that the San Francisco Giants won the World Series. I understand the rationale that he’s a puny-looking dweeb who throws like Roger Clemens or Randy Johnson, and that his ascent to stardom is equivalent to a nerd being elected Prom King. However, I still disagree that I could take him in a fight. That’s an automatic disqualification, sorry.

Consider this list compromised. I am hereby demoting the aforementioned athletes and filling in the blanks with some real studs and a stud-ette. My childhood hero, John Elway—who punked Cleveland, twice, long before it was fashionable—fall in line, my main man. Serena Williams—finally! A woman can certainly swing it with the big boys, meanwhile charming me through the idiot box. Mix in “Neon” Deion Sanders—a.k.a. “Primetime”—and voila! Perfection.

There’s your real list. This matter is closed for now.