Son, do you know why I pulled you over?

I observed you going through a post-Super Bowl loss period experiencing little to no sign of outward remorse or crushing sadness. One might even go as far as to say you displayed borderline joyous behavior.

These are serious charges, son. As serious as losing a Super Bowl. When I see you prancing about all willy-nilly like it don’t mean nothing, you force my hand. I’m taking you in.

But first, we gonna have us a little chat. Now, they let you play this game so I know at one point somebody sat you down and told you what’s what. In the off-chance you forgot, allow me to refresh:

The game is life. This game is more than life. Life has plenty of rules so you know the game has even more. The game has so many, I don’t even know most of ‘em. But I do know first and foremost it’s serious business and everything hinges on wins and losses. I’ve ruined men’s health and livelihoods and not given it second thought. But failing at the game? That what haunts me. I lost Super Bowls and turned to alcohol and hard drugs to keep my mind from thinking on it. Turns out those substances don’t mix well with HGH. It resulted in a few assault charges that I’m trying to keep on the low, but the experience as a whole made me a stronger man because I learned to confront my grief head-on, like a defenseless receiver.

I knocked the piss out of my grief. And I let every one know I did it. I didn’t just do it because it’s the law; it’s the right thing to do. People were grateful because they felt right to view the game as a serious business because I did too. They see you not torn up about it, what are they supposed to think? That it doesn’t really matter? Can’t be having that.

We’re gonna take a little ride down the station. I’m gonna let you clear your head in the grief tank and by tomorrow you’ll be carrying on like your loved ones were cut down before their time. Sorry about them, by the way. HGH… [Shrugs]

To learn more about the dog fort meme, consult your local library.

For those disinclined to follow media circlejerks, the latest one involves Washington Post columnist Mike Wise, who, for whatever fatuous reason, decided to take to his Twitter account on Monday to try an “experiment with online media” where he made up a report saying he heard that Ben Roethlisberger’s suspension is being reduced to five games. A few online media outlets, including ProFootballTalk, fell for the ruse, which Wise later stupidly bragged about on his radio show. Wise did an interview that day with Dan Levy, in which he responded to Florio’s contention that the Tweets were a dick move by suggesting that Florio has no right to talk because he’s a remorseless ethically challenged dick, which is true but doesn’t make Florio’s claim any less right.

As a result of his dumb prank, Wise was suspended by WaPo for a month. Florio, still self-righteously fuming over being duped, complained that Wise should have been fired. Speaking as someone who has been fired from The Washington Post for an infraction less serious than Wise’s, even I thought his punishment was fair. Later, The Post’s ombudsman, who doesn’t have the authority to fire anyone, weighed in, saying that Wise was lucky not to have been shitcanned. Uh oh, someone agreed with Florio! Time for gloating! And not just any gloating. CRAZY DELUSIONAL GLOATING.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Who exactly do you think are, the David Broder dean of the football press corps? No one cares who you think should be fired. You’ve carved yourself a nice and probably lucrative place among the great sports media borg, Florio, but don’t let your success floating rumors and theories fool you into thinking you’ve achieved some elevated place from which you can impose your demands.

It’s the first NFL game being simulcast by two major networks since Super Bowl I, and the first ever in which reserves will play a prominent role. No matter which station you tune into, you’re getting the same feed of the NFL Network’s dolorous Bryant Gumble dronefest. The winner of the ratings showdown is more in doubt and probably just as consequential as the winner of this game. WHO YA GOT?

I am sorry that you went to jail, mainly because now someone else will have a chance to rape you, although that may be a misnomer since you really don’t know the meaning of the word “no.” I bet the food in jail is bad, Paris Hilton, but I hear their gym is pretty sweet.

I was thinking the other day about all the fun times we used to have; I was taking a shit and then realized that I didn’t have any toilet paper. So I just sat on the bowl for, I think it was like an hour, and then my ass started to get numb, so I just lathered up my hand with two squirts of Dial and then scrubbed out my crack. But I had no way to rinse out my wares, so I just wiped out the suds with one of my towels. When I finally hopped off and flushed, I saw there was a brand new roll resting on the top of the toilet behind me. I’m never eating ziti after 8 o’clock again.

But anyway, Paris Hilton, I remember when we used to hit the town. You had these stupid little pointy shoes and you asked me what I thought of them. I told you I would rather drive the tips of those shoes through my eye sockets than be forced to bear witness to them for even another second. Then you got really pouty and quiet. And then when I asked what was wrong, you said, “Nothing.” But I think if nothing was really wrong, you would have let me use the anal beads that night.

Remember, Paris Hilton, when we went out with the team to the Chicago Playboy Mansion and Tank wanted to lay money on how many handguns he could cram up your pussy? I really thought he was going to be more systematic with his insertion methods there. Plus I thought that he would have made sure that none of those guns were loaded, or at least had the safeties on. And I have no idea why I took the under, either. That whole thing was really my bad.

I bet jail is a lot like having a sleepover, Paris Hilton, except none of your friends show up and the guards search your asshole for contraband. I will try really hard to make the trip east to California and visit, so we can talk on those special phones, and you can mash your little titties up against the glass, like in that one movie, while I make moaning sounds and jerk off after I throw on a turbin and walk some laps around a pillar.

So, um, I guess I’ll see you later. Tell Martha Stewart I said hey.