Not like you, Brett. Asshole. For seventeen years, while I never really understood what all the fuss was about, I also never wished you any specific harm. Over the last few years, your slow, steady metamorphosis into a flighty, attention-whoring, bigger-than-Jesus, selfish prick hasn’t really bothered me. In fact, it’s been good for the occasional chuckle or two.

Then I went to bed last night thinking how fun it was going to be blogging today about how you were bringing your overrated, coach-killing, non-committed, holier-than-thou, malcontented ass down to the NFC South and proceed to singlehandedly blow up that circus of queers down in Tampa. How you were going to cost them a pick or two, undermine the hell out of whatever credibility Gruden had left in that locker room after he inevitably kicked Fabulous Jeff to the curb, half-ass your way to 7-9 and then retire again in January. For good this time. Unless of course Tampa really, really, really asked nicely. Or would let you go play for someone who did. Oh what fun that would have been.