All the great ones take a leave of absence only to return to their craft as sharp and keen as they were when they departed. Take Grover Cleveland for example. Not a man amongst us wouldn’t admit that his four year term culminating in 1897 vastly trumped his initial term in the oval office.

Lest we forget this summer’s Superman Returns. Is there any doubt that the remake will far exceed the genius of the Christopher Reeve flicks?

And far be it for the buffoon to ignore the superman of sport, Michael Jordan. If memory serves, MJ in his early days couldn’t hold a candle to the MJ donning a 45 on his back after an esteemed foray as a ChiSox farmhand concluded. And furthermore, the MJ of the Wizards, now that was as clear of an example as Willie Mays falling over himself in the Met outfield trying to chase down a fly ball as an athlete exiting on top of Everest.

OK, so maybe the buffoon is a little rusty after nearly a two week absence. But we assuredly are not lacking in content as it has been awhile, so we will forego the apologies, as I’m sure you have been salivating in front of your computer screens, and get right to it.

We’ll start in the NBA, where since we have been gone, LeBron put on quite a show in extending the Pistons to the limit, putting the Cavs on his proverbial back and nearly willing them to the Conference Finals, all the while stuffing Rasheed’s proverbial foot in Rasheed’s proverbial horse mouth.

Speaking of horses, Barbaro’s injury was the closest I have been to welling up in tears during a sporting event, since tears of joy flowed the day Charlie Hayes gripped the Mark Lemke popout that sealed the deal for the 96 Yanks.

As for that team, Joel Sherman’s book, “Birth of a Dynasty” documenting that incredible season, is my morning commute reading these days and is highly recommended.

Oh yeah the NBA.

So LeBron gave it a go and at 21 years of age has far exceeded even the lofty expectations unfairly thrust upon him as a teenager. No question, assuming health, and perhaps a viably decent sidekick, LeBron will add numerous trophies to the mantle.

In the West, Dallas and Phoenix survived their respective Game 7’s, the Mavs avoiding a collapse that perhaps could’ve made it necessary for a pacemaker to be installed to replace Mark Cuban’s broken ticker. Nonetheless, Dallas overcame Jason Terry’s necessity to commit the incessantly idiotic act of using Michael Finley’s bag as a punching pouch, resulting in his suspension from Game 6, which predictably ended in a Spurs victory.

As for my predictions, despite both being down a game, I’ll go with my gut from the get go as I anticipate a Dallas/Detroit tussle in the Finals.

Despite some thrilling games and extremely competitive series through the first two rounds, which remind me again, began five months ago, the story of the NBA Playoffs to this point is 100% accuracy. No, I’m not talking about a Shaq slam, or a Chauncey Billups’ fourth quarter free throw. I’m talking about channel surfing. If you feel so inclined over the next three months that the NBA Playoffs will endure, indulge me in the following exercise.

Casually watching a Seinfeld rerun and curiosity perks up about the score of the Pistons/Heat game? Flip to TNT. There is 100% certainty a commercial is what you see. I’m telling you, without fail, not once, not a single time yet over the course of the last five months has there been basketball on the screen. It is uncanny. Ted Turner, you are one wealthy man.

Oh yeah, and your Braves are still winning the NL East.

As for the Mets, yeah they got us twice out of three, and without Billy Wagner imploding Byung Hyun Kim style, would’ve swept us. And yeah, those Metropolitans took two of three from the Phils, and yeah they made trades firming up the back end of that putrid rotation which more importantly than bringing El Duque and Dave Williams into the fold, rid Met fans of the prospect of experiencing Jose Lima and Jeremi Gonzalez ever again. But, don’t you worry player haters. The hatorade is good drinking here. It is inevitable. The Bravos will heat up like a bikini clad J-Simp and the Mets are due to crash and burn like the Poseidon.

Great flick.

Or not.

We conclude the return of the buffoon with wrapping up our first season of American Idol. To me the story of the finale has little to nothing to do with Taylor being crowned the victor---who didn’t anticipate that? What I wasn’t expecting was some issue laden teen, who lucidly has some questions looming about his sexuality, nearly collapse of a heart attack as he and Clay Aiken serenaded one another in what could’ve been the most disturbing five minutes in television history.

I couldn’t help but notice how much Seacrest pretended to be appalled. That boy loved every moment of that. I’m sold….Seacrest out….of the closet.

I mean I thought I was done with the inundation of homosexuality featured on the tube when Vito got whacked this week. Once again, I was a buffoon.

Welcome back readership. I hope it was downright miserable without me.

Chris Shelton….still not an attractive male.

Buffoon out! Never again for two weeks. My word is my bond.