We’re in the slowest stretch of the offseason now: the dreaded post-draft period. There’s no football on, and there won’t be football on for quite some time. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, we’re hateful too. Of all things, at all times. Hating is what we do best. So, in that spirit, I’d like to present you with our new off-topic offseason feature…

Every week or so, we’ll be taking our lack-of-football-related depression out on any number of deserving targets: people, things, abstract ideas, group dinners, etc. It’s just the kind of cathartic invective we excel at. This week, PEOPLE WHO WANT TIPS ON WHAT TO WATCH OR READ.

With most TV shows wrapping up their seasons and trips to the beach not far in the offing, before long you’re going to be inundated with people asking for recommendations for their “next show to get into” or “what books I should take to the beach.” Tell these people to get fucked with a fire poker.

I hate recommending entertainment media. Any of it. Books, movies, TV shows, video games, porn, what have you. Not so much that I don’t like imposing my tastes on others, but I hate people who are standing aimless at entertainment crossroads, beseeching you to be to shepherd them to their next obsession. I don’t like having to answer for my tastes, because I’m usually passionate about whatever it is I’m into. Also because almost certainly the asshole who is too lazy to find things to pursue on their own is going to come back to you and tell you how lousy/overrated whatever it was you told them to check out was. And then ensues a vociferous argument about the merits of said work, which will strike you as them calling you dumb or obtuse or susceptible to hype for liking said work. And then you want to chop them with a a blood-encrusted halberd.

CONTEXT: At the end of high school I worked for the worst named video store in world.

Every day, inevitably, some fuckwit would come up and ask me “what’s good,” which I suppose on its face is not an unreasonable thing for a customer at a video store to do. HOWEVAH it’s such a deceptively complex question so as to be pointless. What’s good to me, the pretentious young video store clerk, almost certainly isn’t good to you, person dense enough to ask complete strangers for suggestions.

Now, I assume the worst of people. Always. But I betrayed this instinct at first, initially making plugs for things that I actually liked. And for this transgression, I was met with bitching. “A’yo, son, that LE SAMOURAI shit was WACK!” There were even those who went as far as to demand free rentals from the manager because they didn’t like what I had suggested they watch. And thus did I align my sympathies with the misanthropes of the world.

But then it felt even worse when I went the other way, and suggested shit that I loathed and they would return with kind words, which only validated deep-seated hatred for all creatures.

LISTEN: I don’t know what you like. I don’t know what you’re in the mood to see. I DON’T KNOW SHIT ABOUT YOU AND JUST WANT MY SHIFT TO GET OVER SO I CAN GO HOME GET HIGH AND FINISH PLAYING SHENMUE BECAUSE I’M ALMOST DONE WITH IT!

I venture to say that it’s just as bad with friends, because it opens fissures of disagreement, exposes fundamental weaknesses in the tenuous bond you share. “How could I associate with anyone who thought up in the Old Hotel was pedestrian? I can’t.”

These grounds are too precarious to tread. It’s better you send them to Uncrate and wish them luck. AND IF THEY TELL YOU THAT SITE IS OVERRATED SHOOT THEM WHERE THEY STAND.

My favorite team is going to sign Brett Favre in the coming days, or weeks, or months, or however long it takes that fucking asshole to milk the publicity machine to his satisfaction. It’s going to happen. Debating whether or not it will is a complete waste of fucking time. When it comes to the Land Baron, speculation always becomes reality.

It’s fitting that it would come this. For years and years, I have fucking loathed Brett Favre with every fiber of my being. He is the single most self-aggrandizing piece of shit who ever walked the Earth, the most blatantly phony human being in America this side of Bobby Bowden. Say what you will of openly douchebaggy people like Matt Leinart or Spencer Pratt. At least there are no illusions when it comes to those gents’ intentions. Everything about Favre – from his style of play to his carefully cultivated everyman image – is complete bullshit, and everything about the man is tiresome, to the point where bitching about him being tiresome has become an even more tiresome enterprise than whatever it is that makes him tiresome to begin with. Not only am I sick of this dipshit, but I’m sick of being sick of him. And I resent that everyone is so tired of hating him, that I’m beating a dead horse by still hating him.

I have always argued that pro athletes should play their respective sports as long as they damn well please, because it’s still a kickass job even if you aren’t all that good at it anymore. So I don’t begrudge Favre his right to play football, even if it’s for the Vikings. What I do begrudge is the fact that this asshole NEVER WANTED TO FUCKING STOP PLAYING TO BEGIN WITH. He knew the second he rererereretired earlier this year that he’d try and get his release so he could play in Minnesota. This whole myth perpetrated by Peter King that, “I don’t think even Brett Favre knows what Brett Favre is going to do” is the most insulting pile of shit I’ve ever heard. That fuck knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing, and anyone who says otherwise probably spends all day licking radiators.

Make no mistake, when the Vikings end up signing Favre, it won’t be the final piece in some kind of championship puzzle. It’ll be the nothing more than the final nail in the coffin for Brad Childress. It’ll be the last act of a desperate coach who has spent the past three years wasting an otherwise talented roster on unimaginative schemes and an abject failure to produce anything of note at the quarterback position. This asshole had three fucking years to cultivate a decent QB for this team. Three. A fucking lifetime in NFL years.

Instead, he insisted he could develop Tarvaris Jackson, who can play the position somewhat decently only when there is nothing important to play for. Jackson was drafted by Fran Foley, the onetime Vikings personnel director who was immediately fired after the Jackson draft, for warning his secretary there would be a coming “bloodbath” (his word): a mass firing of scouts and team administrators. Foley traded two third-round picks to select Jackson, whose predraft grades (most pegged him as a late round pick to rookie free agent) immediately made his selection the equivalent of the Raiders’ Michael Mitchell pick two weeks ago.

The Vikings could have made any number of moves in recent years to give Jackson competition, or to outright replace him. They had a chance to trade for Matt Schaub. They had a chance to draft any number of other QB’s. They could have traded for Jay Cutler, regardless of whether or not you found his price too exorbitant. Instead, they did virtually nothing until trading for Sage Rosenfels earlier this year. It’s an indictment of just how poorly prepared Jackson is that Rosenfels, who averages one interception for every 20 fucking pass attempts, represents a colossal upgrade at the position.

And now, only now, after time and again fucking up the QB situation, does Childress feel urgently compelled to seriously upgrade the position. And how is he going about it? By making late overtures to an erratic 39-year-old journeyman with half a bicep. Hey shitbox, you already have an erratic journeyman on the roster. Do we really need fucking multiples of them?

I’ve heard arguments in the Minnesota media that, while Favre almost certainly offers no January promise for the Vikings, that his presence will at least make the coming season more interesting. Well, you know what? I don’t want my team to be fucking interesting. I want my team to fucking WIN. I’ve seen this team do the interesting thing before, with Denny Green and Randy Moss and all that shit. It was fun. But ultimately, it ended up going to shit.

Interesting teams don’t win it all in the NFL anymore. If you want to win a Super Bowl, you’re better off being the most boring fucking team alive. Look at the Steelers. They change coaches once every two decades. They never sign big name free agents, particularly those “he’s the final piece!” type free agents. They don’t do any of that shit. They keep things running smoothly, and then they go win titles. And they don’t sign players I fucking despise.

That’s the biggest dagger of all in this whole shitshow. That seething hatred I have of Brett Favre is part of who I am. It’s ingrained in my very being. When I die, my body will turn into nothing but solid black ash. I won’t go to Heaven. I won’t go to Hell. I’ll simply stop existing. Not a trace of me will be left, on this plane or any other. But, even then, I assure you I’ll still find a way to fucking hate Brett Favre.

And now, as a final, personal FUCK YOU to every Viking fan like me who ever wished him dead, that fuckface is now going to make it so I have to root for him. I actually have to cheer when he goes and does something good. And that makes me hate his fucking guts all the more. Because now I’m supposed to buy into all his bullshit.

That fucking fuck.

Well, fine. If that’s the way it has to be, then so be it. I’ll root for you in a Vikings uniform, Favre. But just know that I will hate every goddamn minute of it. Just know that never has loving a sports team been more exposed as a thoughtless, irrational, singularly idiotic pursuit than in this coming instance. Just know that I will fucking hunt you down with a goddamn bow when you end up fucking us in the end. And you will fuck us. Just know I’m far more excited by the thought of you getting booed at Lambeau than the thought of you being cheered at the Metrodome.

Just know that your new head coach is an incompetent, arrogant fuckwit who couldn’t place an order at a Sonic drive thru without fucking it up and triggering some sort of biochemical attack.

Just know all that before you sit down for your little powwow with Brad Childress, Farvaro. You fucking pussyflap. Oh, I’ll cheer you on, you fucking Hollywood redneck cockpuller. I’ll pull for you every step of the way, you miserable shit volcano. I’ll cherish your token three good games during the season that make Collinsworth flood his pants, you blood-soaked pantyliner.

I’ll do all that that.

But I’ll never stop hating you.

Fuck you.

This is Ted Leonsis. He is the owner of a professional hoc-key (sp?) team and a Greek, two solid giveaways that you should never pay credence to anything that slinks out of his fat tabbouleh hole. Yet here we are getting pissy about some obtuse nonsense he spouted on his blog. Such is the gaping void of suck that is the NFL offseason.

The team he owns is the Washington Capitals, a franchise that had no fans prior to having the NHL’s MVP on its roster and will have none once again after it endures another losing season. (RAWK THE RED!) Ted also helped spur AOL to financial success (when it had success and lots of discs to mail you), bankrolls movies and blog networks and other entrepreneurial shit. This makes him a Winner in the Game of Life.

Beyond that, Leonsis is a Pronouncer of Epochs. Only he, as an elite flier, can bookmark the partitions between the great shifts in cultural thinking. I hope you have enjoyed The Era of Snarky Feelings because Ted, in a premise he was daring enough to steal from David Denby, has pronounced snark to be dead. Kaput. Subject to necrobestiality fetishists.

Snark is dead. The era of snideness and rudeness is over. I am calling the bottom.

Ovechkin only likes being a top anyway.

Incidentally, if, like me, you happen to be a glutton for punishment and listened to Simmons podcast with Rick Reilly, you heard Simmons invoke 9/11 as a time when he thought we would forever become a kinder and more sincere people. If I wasn’t so snark-ravin’ mad (feel free to use, Reilly) I’d transcribe the whole thing to 9-11 Happened to Me!, a wonderful site “devoted to compiling the most inane, alarmist, reactionary and Irony Is Dead comments everyone said — and I mean everyone — in the days after September 11.”

Here is how I see it. Can you name me one business based on snarkiness that has been successful? Can you name me one person that you know that is snarky and rude that is happy? Has great relationships? Has life success? Can you name me one blogger that is relentless in his snideness that is successful with readers and advertisers? How about one anonymous negative message board poster that is self actualized; takes initiative; and is a winner? I know why. It is because snark is so 2004, so pre the new reality.

Let’s see – there’s damn near everyone in the entertainment world interested in being funny. They’ve garnered some financial and personal success from this whole snark thing. The Gawker business model seems to have netted Nick Denton a few shiny dimes from his sweat-snark shop, while many of the individual bloggers are living comfortably doing what they do. Granted, it’s not Nanking financier money, but it’s livable nonetheless.

The era of Snark is over. It was all tangled up in an era of empty financial success calories where you were either in or out with the mainstream media and it was easy to be snarky sort of like a comedian that drops F bombs and curse words in a stand-up act to be considered hip and funny. Snark is for the intellectually lazy.

So it was snark that sunk Wall Street? At least that’s what you seem to be implying. And here I thought it was self-serious asshole millionaires who did it. Why search out CEO homes when we could be lynching Louis C.K.?

As for the statement that sarcasm is for the intellectually lazy, sure, there’s some truth to that. But it’s certainly no less lazy and naive than some Greg Kinnear in Little Miss Sunshine-esque rant about behaviors that aren’t indicative of “winners”.

It is hard to find the upside in downside thinking and activity, isn’t it?

Quite the linguistic flourish.

Snark, the animal species in Lewis Carroll’s The Hunting of the Snark are not positive role models. Snark is dead. Bury it and move on. We are all in this together. Onward.

Similarly, a douche, a device used in vaginal irrigation, is not a positive role model either.

And, sure, we will all hold an earnest funereal ceremony (pyre or Viking funeral – TBD) for snark and irony and dick jokes, where we will forever put away childish things and set out into the world, renewed with purpose and enterprise and with jagged sticks jammed 18 inches into our rectums. Then we will be Winners. And having won, we’ll look for some other benign slice of humanity to decry.

Here’s your 2009 Hall of Fame class:
Bob Hayes
Bruce Smith
Randall McDaniel (yay)
Derrick Thomas
Rod Woodson
Ralph Wilson

I have no qualms with any of the above men making the Hall, and am indeed delighted Randall McDaniel got in (Take that, Strokey Zimmerman!). But you see the gentleman in the photo above? That’s Cris Carter, who was only the second best receiver in NFL history. And yet again, the Hall sees fit to deny him induction. Hey Hall Of Fame Committee, I hope you all fucking die of kidney failure. I hope your renal systems slowly fail, turning your urine black and requiring you to endure painful daily sessions of dialysis. And I hope a matching donor is found just a hair too late, so you die slowly on a hospital gurney just as the paramedics are jumping out of the helicopter with an Igloo cooler carrying your precious, vital organs. That way, you think salvation is close at hand, only to have it cruelly wrested from your big fat grasp. YOU FUCKING IGNORANT STUPID FUCKS.

CRIS CARTER HAD THE BEST HANDS IN NFL HISTORY AND CAUGHT SIDELINE PASSES LIKE NO OTHER. We’re not talking about Art Monk here. We’re talking about someone who was fucking GOOD. If you fucks can’t see fit to induct him, THEN YOU KNOW FUCK ALL ABOUT FOOTBALL AND DESERVE TO BE HUNG ON A MEATHOOK DIPPED IN WOLF AIDS. That means you King, and Wilbon, and all you other fucks. I bet you all spend 20 hours a day drinking out of your own toilets. “Oh, my shit! It’s so good! I’m so amazing! MY POOP IS A HAVEN OF CORN AND FOOTBALL ACUMEN.”

Put that on one of your fucking charts. DIE.

Earlier today Vinny “Blinky” Cerrato made one of his twice-weekly appearances on Danny Snyder’s ESPN 980, the official station of the Washington Redskins. He some time out to chat with the fans and announced some exciting plans to rip off Pittsburgh’s beloved Terrible Towels. You know, the brightly colored hand towels that Steelers fans have utilized for thirty years.

Yeah, in a move startling both for its timeliness and its originality, 50,000 burgundy ESPN980 towels will be handed out on Sunday night, 50,000 apparently being the estimated number of Redskins fans who will be on hand.

“I can’t get tickets,” one caller said Inside the Red Zone today.

“Everybody else could,” Vinny Cerrato replied. “All the Pittsburgh people could. You must have been calling the wrong people….We’re going to have nice towels so we won’t have the yellow Pittsburgh towels in the stadium. We’re going to have burgundy Redskins towels.

Yeah, asshole, why can’t you spend one of your precious bi-weekly paycheck to take in one of the worst stadium experiences in the NFL?! Don’t you know how badly we need the support of you fans? We thought we made that clear when we bled every cent out of your pocket over the last decade. Hell, we’re even throwing in FREE RAGS!

That’s right, after last week’s embarrassment against the Steelers we’ve determined that the best possible way to keep out rival fans is by handing out poorly made rags. Why if it weren’t for this mind-numbingly brilliant marketing ploy our beloved town of Raljon might be overrun every week! Did you see how cool all of those yellow towels looked? Just try to picture 50,000 burgundy rags flapping away!

Seriously Vinny, these weak-ass rags are going to look like one of your week-old maxipads. But hey, at least you’ve figured out a way to drown out all the Terrible Towels that will surely be waving when we play…Dallas. That sir, is why you are the VP of Player personnel, and why everyone hates you so much. Seriously though, good work on the radio show and cross-branding. But maybe, just maybe, you could fit in some actual player personnel work in between snarky comments about Jason La Canfora and all of your creepy cackling duties.

That fucking putz.

Oh yeah, one other thing from the show. A caller asked a question about USC’s star linebacker, and surefire top-ten pick, Rey Maualuga and our beloved personnel director couldn’t even manage to say the guys fucking name. But hey, don’t blame Vinny, because as he says, Rey (somethingorother) will likely be off the board before the Redskins pick. And as Vinny is surely aware, the Redskins have never been known to trade up in the draft. Thank god this guy is in charge.

Redskins to Copy Terrible Towels

Mike Singletary’s debut as Niners’ head coach left him a tad exasperated today. Had Singletary delivered this speech at half-time of an eighties sports movie he definitely would have been a winner.

[ longer version of the rant here ]

Oddly enough, only one of these guys is one of the schmucks in question.

When Dan Snyder announced his takeover of DC’s SportsTalk 980 I knew we were in a shitload of trouble. Just two weeks into the season Mr. Snyder, unhappy with the negative tone of the local media, inserted his own right-hand-man Vinny Cerrato into the station’s lineup. So now the Redskins Executive Vice President of Football Operations (basically a castrated GM) gets to play radio host a couple of times a week in an attempt to skew the coverage back towards the positive along with Snyder-approved guests like the loathsome George Michael.

Needless to say, nobody in their right mind thought this was anything close to a good idea. And not just because the guy running the team should probably have something better to do with his afternoons than to shill for his own franchise, instead it’s because everybody knows that Vinny Cerrato is a worthless prick.

Why all the hate for Vinny? Well for starters he has absolutely zero qualifications to run an NFL franchise, unless you consider working as Lou Holtz’s “recruiting coordinator” (bag-boy*) at Notre Dame to be executive experience. This is the guy who traded for Brandon Lloyd, gave him a huge (and completely unnecessary) contract only to cut him loose and claim that he’s reverted back into a capable receiver in Chicago because he’s “desperate” without a huge guaranteed contract. Logic like that is what makes everyone in this city want to knock the chicklets out of his self-satisfied smile with a length of rebar.

Now for a little bit of background on this story’s (there is a story coming eventually) other player…

For those of you who are unfamiliar, the schmuck pictured above is one Jason La Canfora (an avowed fan of the Red Sox). He is the Washington Post’s beat writer for the Redskins, which is hard because he and Cerrato are not on speaking terms. The hatred between these two jackasses is nothing new, and for a while nobody could really blame LaCa. Hell, every Redskins fan I know would wait in line to tell Vinny to fuck off in their own colorful way. But that doesn’t excuse his attempts to subvert the franchise out of spite.

So what did he do that was so bad?

The Redskins beat writer called the NFL offices to “inquire” as to whether or not the Redskins could be considered guilty of tampering after Vinny and the guests on his new radio show were merely speculating as to what might be next for Lane Kiffin if he were in fact to be fired. It was clear to anyone who doesn’t have their head planted alongside their colon that Vinny was nowhere in the neighborhood of tampering. The only reason La Canfora pursued the issue at all is because he’s always on the lookout for anything that could possibly undermine the Snyder-Cerrato machine.

Now of course the league called up Vinny to let him know what was going on, and the fuckwad brought up the situation yesterday’s radio show. Only the way Vinny told the story, it wasn’t an inquiry so much as it was La Canfora attempting to “charge us with tampering.” This little bit of misinformation (the one field in which Vinny is actually competent) actually turned Vinny into a sympathetic figure (for a few hours), albeit one with the world’s most weaselly laugh.

While calling the league to “inquire” about a rule seems innocent enough, it seems pretty obvious that La Canfora was in fact trying to find a noose with which to hang his nemesis.

So how can we settle the bitch-fest between the world’s most misanthropic beat writer and the world’s shittiest front office executive? Normally I’d suggest a trip to the Thunder Dome, but then one of them would get to live.

*H/T to Czaban.

On Jason La Canfora, Vinny Cerrato and Tampering
Cerrato’s Special Working Relationship

I’d like to take a time out from the continuing horror that is life without football to issue the following FKS-style rant.

I FUCKING HATE GROUP DINNERS.

Let me tell you something. There is no way to enter into a group dinner without somehow managing to get completely fucked. Take it from someone who knows. Group dinners are usually arranged by a female, usually a friend of some girl you’re trying to nail. And that friend will pick a restaurant without any fucking regard as to where you live or what your salary is. “Oooh, there’s a hot new restaurant on Ellis Island that only serves caviar and Kobe beef! Let’s go there!”

The restaurant will be loud. You won’t be able to hear a goddamn thing. And you will be seated, invariably, next to most socially awkward people at the table. You’ll crane your neck to look down the table, seeing the people at the other end engaged in a compelling conversation. Meanwhile, you’re stuck with some asshole who’s talking about the repairs he’s making to his fucking house. I’m 31 now. People my age talk about their fucking houses ALL THE GODDAMN TIME.

“Well, when we moved in, the basement was just a wreck! So we wanted to install carpet and maybe add a sectional. But then the contractor had to rip out all this mold! And you wouldn’t believe how much the plumber wanted to charge to install a half-bathroom! There’s also been a history of flooding down there, you know…”

DIE.

The only thing worse than people talking about their kids, or their jobs, is them talking about their fucking houses. I don’t give a fuck about your house. It’s just another fucking house like every other house. It’s got a bed, a kitchen, a TV, and your stash of child porn hidden in the attic. BOTTLE IT, FUCKO.

The worst part of a group dinner is that I can’t order my own shit. No, they gotta order apps “for the whole table”. Did I want artichoke dip? No, I did not. Artichoke dip is fucking horrible. One time I went to a group dinner and the “host” ordered apps and entrees for everyone WITHOUT FUCKING ASKING ANYONE WHAT THEY WANTED. Hey cockhead, did I ask for stewed chickpeas? Take this and shove it up your gaping asshole.

Ever have to go to a group dinner at a tapas restaurant? It’s agony. You order a shrimp app, and they bring out 5 shrimp for a fucking table of 8. I’ve gone to tapas restaurants, plunked down $45, and taken a grand total of five bites. Hey Spain, if you want to starve to death, you go right ahead. The rest of us like fucking eating more than a pea for dinner. You bullfighting queers. Mata-WHORES.

The disparity in consumption also outrages me. I order a $5 beer. The jackass across the way orders a fucking $17 appletini. Or some bitch always ALWAYS orders a pitcher of sangria. If there’s white sangria on the menu for $10 more, they’ll order that. They’ll order it “for the table”. Ever pour a pitcher of anything for eight people? You get three milliliters of fluid. FUCK YOUR FRUITY WINE DRINK.

If everyone’s having just entrees, some moron will always fuck it up by ordering an app, thus driving up the tab AND making the rest of the table wait longer for the goddamn food. If I order a $15 entrée, someone else will invariably order the Chateaubriand with foie gras. No one wants to stick around for dessert, but some idiot will always pipe up, “Ooh! I just HAVE to look at the dessert menu!”

And once the tab arrives, it’s automatically assumed that the tab be SPLIT EQUALLY. Hey host lady. You see those seven daiquiris on the tab? Those are your problem. I’m not paying for that shit. Yet if I bitch about this, I’m somehow a cheap asshole. What the fuck?

Worst of all, when the tab arrives, someone ends up having to do the math to figure out how much everyone owes plus tip. Only they have to make sure Jimmy only pays for his drinks, because he showed up late and didn’t eat anything. Then that person’s gotta explain it all to the waiter, only the waiter is nowhere to be found, so they have to explain it to the busboy, who only speaks a rare Peruvian dialect.

And guess who always gets stuck with this task?

And for you people who like to order coffee at the end of a meal: EAT A PILE OF SHIT. It’s 10PM. What the fuck do you need coffee for? Order a straight bourbon like the rest of the civilized world. When I go to a group dinner, I am ALWAYS the first person to stand up, as a way of signaling to people that it’s time to end the meal. Otherwise, people just sit there for time eternal. God dammit.

No more group dinners, people. Okay? If you want to eat in large groups, throw a Bar Mitzvah. Otherwise, we’re all going to Super Chicken. Pay at the register for your own crap. Shithead.

Group dinners are worse than the Holocaust.

Roethlisberger has 22 TDs and seven picks, despite having a mediocre offensive line that makes him run for his life. But, yeah, he’s totally an overrated game manager.

Give the retard his due. Or at least something shiny.

This weekend, I had to spend Saturday night working the cops beat for the paper. This is okay because you get the occasional gem like this one: 6500 BLK, 12TH ST. MALE ATTACKED BY FAMILY DOG WHILE STABBING HIS WIFE. ANIMAL IS ON THE LOOSE IN THE AREA.

But it also involves long stretches of inactivity, with which I must fill with football-related reading. Running through enough of it (or churning up enough masochistic urges) I eventually got to Simmons’ Friday picks column and came upon this stretch of mind-boggling retardery:

(Note: Thank God the NFL doesn’t work like fantasy and San Diego couldn’t steal Chambers away for a measly second-round pick simply because Miami wanted to take a dump on their fans, tank their season and preserve the legacy of the ’72 Dolphins. Because that would suck.)

Put simply, this is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve read all year from any writer. Take a million supermikes writing on a million Etch-A-Sketches for a million years and you wouldn’t come up with anything half as fucking asinine.

Really? We’re supposed to believe a team like the Dolphins, a winless team obviously in need of unloading big money players for value while they still can in advance of overhauling their roster, is dumping their no. 1 receiver for no other reason than to fuck the Pats chances at an unbeaten season? Taking that logic, maybe they might have shipped him to a team that the Pats HAVEN’T ALREADY BEATEN! Why? To protect a 36-year-old record?

We’re also to ignore the fact that Chris Chambers for a second-round pick isn’t actually that lop-sided of a trade?

We may need another bounty.