Panel of the Week

From Teen Titans #62:

Inching ever closer to my dream of year-round football

Sentiment among NFL leaders to reduce the preseason to two or three games per team and lengthen the regular season to 17 or 18 games, up from the current 16, is growing, and it seems generally accepted that such an adjustment likely will be made within the next few years. (Washington Post)

A 17-week or 18-week NFL season is a good start. But that's all it is.

When you think about it, the current NFL schedule isn't just short, it's astonishingly short. America is a country obsessed with football. Obsessed. And yet counting the preseason, the regular season, and the Super Bowl, the NFL is active only 25 weeks out of the year. (26 if you want to count the week of the draft.) 26 weeks out of the year. Half. That means there's an entire half of the year that doesn't have football, and that's just wrong.

Now, as much as I would love for the NFL to expand the season to a perfectly reasonable 40-45 weeks out of the year, I'm guessing the players might object. Pussies. I mean, it's not like they'd have to play every week. That's what back-ups are for. But if that's out of the question, the next-best solution is obvious. We need another football league in this country to cover those football-less 26 weeks.

No, not the Arena League. I can't...I won't...support a league where Jon Bon Jovi is one of the owners. Besides, real football is played outdoors. Or in domes. Or stadiums with retractable roofs. You know what I mean. The United Football League sounds promising, but as far as I'm concerned, until I actually see a game, it's vaporware.

Of course, the obvious argument against another football league is the XFL. But had it not been for all the Vince McMahon bullshit like encouraging gratuitous violence on the field and sexing up the cheerleaders to the nth degree (which, in theory, was a great idea, but it got a little obnoxious, and frankly, the rapid back-and-forth between soft-core cheerleader porn and big strapping men left me feeling confused), I really think it would still be around.

So, given the difficulties involved in attracting players, building stadiums, and all the other hard work that goes into building a professional sports league infrastructure from the ground up, who can realistically start up a viable alternative to the NFL?

Simple: The NFL.

Think about it. The NFL Summer League. Or...you know, something cooler sounding. The NFL Heat League? The NFL Extreme League? Regardless, from early March, after the Super Bowl and Pro Bowl (although, honestly, if the NFL scrapped the Pro Bowl, would anyone give a shit?) until the end of July, we'd have virtually non-stop NFL action year round!

The benefits from this would be enormous.

You know those giant stadiums that are used only a few times a year? They'd get a lot more use, meaning more jobs and more tax revenue.

You know the fans who can't afford tickets to NFL games anymore? They'd get to see pro football (okay, more like semi-pro football) at affordable prices.

You know all those borderline-talented college players who get drafted in the late rounds and subsequently cut during training camp, or don't get drafted at all? They'd no longer have to bag groceries or perform oil changes.

You know the GMs who are constantly on the lookout for new talent? The summer league could essentially be the NFL's farm league system, which it's badly in need of now that NFL Europe is gone.

You know all the fantasy players who have to suffer through the entire summer without their fix? They'd no longer have to go through withdrawl starting every December.

Now, obviously, football in the summer presents a few unique problems. For example, would we lose a few players each year to the heat? Almost certainly. But who cares? It's NFL football! In the summer! If that's not something worthy of the ultimate sacrifice of a few brave souls, I don't know what is.

And best of all? If there was pro football year-round, we could get rid of all the other sports! Or in the very least, shuffle them off to cable. Think about it. No more NASCAR. That alone might make the whole thing worth it.

Fantasy football is bigger than Jesus

Let's face it. Any schmuck can play pro football.

You pretty much just roll out of bed at 11:30 Sunday morning (or 2 PM, if you're playing in a late game), do a few stretches, get your pads on, put in an hour's worth of work, and then make it home in time to watch The Simpsons. There's probably a little more to it, but that's basically it.

Fantasy football, though...that takes real talent.

Frankly, if there was any justice in the world, it would be fantasy football players earning millions, and NFL players trying to win a $300 pot. I mean, think about it. It takes dozens of people in the front office and on the coaching staff to manage an NFL team. But when it comes to fantasy football, it's just one guy. One guy to decide on a starting line-up each week. One guy to evaluate trade offers. One guy to scan the waiver wire on a daily (indeed, hourly) basis.

Sure, Tom Brady has three Super Bowl rings, but how many fantasy football trophies has he won? L.T. rushed for almost 1,500 yards last season, but has he ever felt the incomperable thrill of winning a fantsy game by only half a point? Tom Coughlin took one team to the Super Bowl last year. Hey, wow. There are fantasy players who manage a dozen teams or more. One team? That just pathetic.

So I think we've established who the real athletes here are.

I've already had one draft, and I have three more over the next two weeks, so I've been doing my homework. And after days, weeks, nay, months...okay, fine, probably about half-an-hour total...I've assembled my surefire, infallible top ten lists for each position. (And by "each position," I obviously mean everyone except kickers, because they're totally interchangeable. Frankly, I'm surprised teams even let them put their names on their jerseys.) I also thought about doing IDP lists, but even I'm not that big of a geek.

These lists assume everyone is healthy going into the regular season. Or at least as healthy as they usually are. For example, Donovan McNabb's propensity for injury has been factored in, but not Derek Anderson's recent concussion.


QUARTERBACK

1) Tom Brady (Patriots)
2) Tony Romo (Cowboys)
3) Ben Roethlisberger (Steelers)
4) Peyton Manning (Colts)
5) Drew Brees (Saints)
6) Donovan McNabb (Eagles)
7) Derek Anderson (Browns)
8) Eli Manning (Giants)
9) Carson Palmer (Bengals)
10) David Gerard (Jaguars)

Sleepers: Jon Kitna (Lions), Jason Campbell (Redskins), Matt Ryan (Falcons)
Busts: Phillip Rivers (Chargers), Marc Bulger (Rams), Brett Favre (Jets)

RUNNING BACK

1) Brian Westbrook (Eagles)
2) LaDanian Tomlinson (Chargers)
3) Joseph Addai (Colts)
4) Adrian Peterson (Vikings)
5) Clinton Portis (Redskins)
6) Steven Jackson (Rams)
7) Marion Barber (Cowboys)
8) Jamal Lewis (Browns)
9) Lawrence Maroney (Patriots)
10) Marshawn Lynch (Bills)

Sleepers: Felix Jones (Cowboys), Kevin Smith (Lions), Thomas Jones (Jets)
Busts: Larry Johnson (Chiefs), Willie Parker (Steelers), Frank Gore (49ers)


WIDE RECEIVER

1) Randy Moss (Patriots)
2) Reggie Wayne (Colts)
3) Terrell Owens (Cowboys)
4) Braylon Edwards (Browns)
5) T.J. Houshmandzadeh (Bengels)
6) Brandon Marshall (Broncos)
7) Santonio Holmes (Steelers)
8) Plaxico Burress (Giants)
9) Larry Fitzgerald (Cardinals)
10) Andre Johnson (Texans)

Sleepers: Patrick Crayton (Cowboys), Chris Henry (Bengels), Anthony Gonzalez (Colts)
Busts: Chad Johnson (Bengels), Santana Moss (Redskins), Tory Holt (Rams)


TIGHT END

1) Jason Witten (Cowboys)
2) Antonio Gates (Chargers)
3) Chris Cooley (Redskins)
4) Heath Miller (Steelers)
5) Dallas Clark (Colts)
6) Tony Gonzalez (Chiefs)
7) Tony Scheffler (Broncos)
8) Donald Lee (Packers)
9) Jeremy Shockey (Saints)
10) Ben Utecht (Begals)

Sleepers: Zach Miller (Raiders), Dustin Keller (Jets), L.J. Smith (Eagles)
Busts: Vernon Davis (49ers), Todd Heap (Ravens), Alge Crumpler (Titans)


DEFENSE/SPECIAL TEAMS

1) Chargers
2) Colts
3) Seattle
4) Vikings
5) Bears
6) Giants
7) Packers
8) Patriots
9) Cowboys
10) Eagles

Sleepers: Titans, Bills, Buccaneers
Busts: Ravens, Bengals, Redskins

Panel of the Week

From Birds of Prey #121:

The Greatest Sports Movie You've Never Seen

I had a real dilemma last night. I was planning on watching women's beach volleyball. I mean...I was going to watch the Olympics, and if women's beach volleyball, you know, happened to be on, well, so be it. But I also had three DVDs from Netflix arrive yesterday (all horror flicks), and I felt like watching one of them.

So I went back and forth for a bit. Olympics? Horror film? Olympics? Horror film? Olympics? Horror film?

And then, in a true "You got chocolate in my peanut butter! No, you got peanut butter in my chocolate!"-type moment, I flashed back to something that actually found a way to combine both of these things.

Fatal Games isn't just any horror movie, either. It's actually the very first horror movie I ever saw in my life. I was 8 or 9 years old, it was on TV, my parents were out, and I had a kick-ass babysitter.

Here's the description from the back of the DVD:

At the Falcon Academy of Athletics, dedicated young athletes train and compete intensely in preparation for the upcoming Olympic Games. Several young, female competitors mysteriously disappear, but no one imagines that they have been slain by a javelin bearing murderer. Far too many people at the academy have motives. Dr. Jordine with his illegal use of drugs in training. Overly demanding Coach Webber. Lesbian Coach Drew. Therapist Diane Paine, a maternal figure who takes her work into the bedroom. Will Annie meet the same fate as her fellow athletes or can she outsmart the killer?

Olympic athletes getting killed! "Javelin bearing murderer!" Can it get any better? Wait...yes! It can! Lesbian Coach Drew! According to IMDB, it also has maybe the best tag line in film history: "The second prize is death!"

Unfortunately, after 20 years, my memories of the film are really fuzzy. In fact, I only remember three scenes from it. One of them is the ending, which I'm going to spoil, because it's too awesome not to mention.

1) One of the characters is out on a field alone, practicing whatever his sport was. This was towards the end of the film, and you would think that by that point, when most of his fellow athletes had mysteriously disappeared, he might be just a bit concerned. But no. They never are. He crouches down to tie his shoelaces or get a drink of water or something, and then...BOOM! A javelin hits him from behind and he dies. (Javelins generally don't make a BOOM! sound when they impale someone, but I couldn't figure out how to type out the sound it does make. SQUISH!, maybe?)

2) Not long afterwards, there are only two athletes left, the aforementioned Annie and some guy. The killer is chasing them inside a building, and they decide to split up. The guy is wearing a cast on his foot, so the killer naturally decides to go after him. As if he wasn't easy enough pickings already, the guy inexplicably runs into a stairwell and tries running up the stairs. With a cast on. As you can probably guess, this doesn't end well. He also gets javelined.

3) Now this...this is what elevates the movie from mere slasher film to art. Annie makes her way to the academy's infirmary, where she meets therapist Diane Paine and starts babbling about being chased by a killer. Diane tries to calm her down, and goes off to get a sedative or something. While she's waiting, Annie notices some old newspaper clippings laying around about a former male javelin thrower who washed out...and then got a sex change operation! At which point the psychotic transsexual Diane runs back in and chases Annie around a bit more before ultimately meeting his/her end. (Likely via javelin, since that's the sort of ironic twist horror films typically like to end on, but I can't recall for certain.)

Oh, and if you're thinking, "Wait, isn't that basically the ending of Ace Ventura, Pet Detective?", you're right, but Fatal Games predates it by almost a decade, so give credit where credit's due.

I'd love to watch this again, but it doesn't seem to be available on DVD any longer. Not Region 1, anyway. But you can't keep a good slasher film down, so I'm sure it'll make a triumphant return eventually.

And in the end, everything worked out for me last night. Volleyball didn't start until 11, so I had plenty of time to watch the Prom Night remake, which I have to admit, was actually a lot better than I expected it to be. Like Fatal Games, it also has a lesbian coach, but sadly, no transsexuals or javelins. I really think transsexuals and javelins would have made it better.

Airport '08

As I flew into D.C. last night, I had a moment of clarity that was both comforting and disturbing.

First, a little background. I'm what you might call a "problem flier." Not the "William Shatner/John Lithgow in The Twlight Zone" level of problem flier, but somewhere in the same zip code. In other words, I don't need alcohol to make it through a flight, but it doesn't hurt.

I'm fine with take-offs. I figure that if something is going to go horribly wrong with a flight, you want it to happen during take-off, because that gives you the greatest chance of survival. I'm mostly okay with landings. Every now and then, I'll imagine I hear some odd noise coming from the landing gear, as if it got jammed or something, and didn't come down. But a quick visual check to confirm that the landing gear is in fact down (not to mention, the lack of the pilot screaming, "Everybody, hang on! Crash landing! Crash landing!") puts me at ease. Of course, after the plane touches down, I always look out the window to watch the flaps on the wings slowing us down via wind resistance, and imagine what would happen if one came off. I would think that with only one flap up, the plane would whip around 360 degrees a couple of times, before crashing back down to the tarmac, likely killing everyone on board. But so far, thankfully, I've never had this theory tested.

No, it's the time when I'm up in the air that I'm most likely to get a mild panic attack. If it's a short flight or I have something to distract me, I'm fine. But after I've been in the air a couple of hours and I'm sick of reading and I don't feel like listening to my iPod anymore, I'll sometimes make the mistake of looking out the window at the earth and clouds below, and it hits me like a ton of bricks: I'm in a metal tube thousands of feet off the ground. This isn't natural. This isn't right. We couldn't possibly have invented something like this. It wasn't that long ago we were living in caves. I think we're probably still in caves, and this is all part of some collective dream we're having. And if I die in the dream, I die in real life.

And that's where I usually spring for an overpriced cocktail, if I didn't already take care of myself at the airport bar earlier.

Last night's flight was especially not fun. There was probably more turbulence on that flight than all the flights I've been on over the past year or two combined. I don't like turbulence. They tell you it's perfectly normal, but it's not. Maybe one or two bumps, sure. But not as many as we were getting. It was like a roller coaster. So about an hour into the flight, I'd pretty much resigned myself to dying.

But then something amazing happened. As we started our descent into National, and came in low over D.C., I had my moment of clarity. I found myself growing happier and more content. And I realized, it wasn't because we were about to land and I was close to safety. It was because I knew that if we did crash, we were going to take part of the city with us.

I don't know why I felt that way. I like D.C. (for the most part). I like the people living here (sort of). I certainly don't want anyone reading this blog to have a plane fall on them (well, maybe a couple of you). And yet...the prospect didn't entirely displease me. In fact, when we were right over Georgetown, I might have actively been rooting for the plane to drop. "Aim for Smith Point!" I would have shouted, if we did start to fall.

So I'm sorry if you live in D.C. and felt an unnatural chill crawl down your spine yesterday. It was just me relishing the thought of taking you out with a large airplane. But don't worry, I'm not scheduled to fly again until December. So if a plane does fall on you before then, it's not my fault.

Panel of the Week

From Golly! #1:

Things I Miss About the 80s and Want Back

Catchy commercial jingles

TV shows that don't take themselves seriously

Horror movie franchises

USA Up All Night

Decent action figures

The Redskins winning Super Bowls instead of watching them

Video arcades

Awe-inspiring feats of athleticism

Hair metal and anthem rock

Phoebe Cates

Five Reasons Why I Hate the Olympics

1) Two weeks is too much

According to Wikipedia, there are 302 events in this year's Olympics. Way more than there needs to be. We could easily cut this thing down if we put our minds to it.

Certain events are not sports except in the absolute loosest sense of the word. Weightlifting is not a sport. Shooting is not a sport. Unless you're a character in The Great Gatsby, badminton is not a sport. Unless you're a 15 year-old girl, field hockey is not a sport. Unless you're an office drone, softball is not a sport. Jesus Christ, why not add events for kickball and Madden while you're at it? Anyway, that's 38 events right there. We get rid of them, we're down to 264.

We already have the World Cup every four years. So isn't soccer in the Olympics sort of redundant? Tennis is out, too, given the number of international tournaments. Now we're at 258.

Trampoline, my ass. 256.

There are a whopping 34 swimming events. Is this the Olympics' way of making sure everyone goes home with a medal? I say cut it down to five and make it a real competition. And I mean five total, not five men's events and five women's. Yup. We're going co-ed. Down to 227.

Wrestling. Boxing. Judo. Taekwondo. Why not just combine them all into one Ultimate Fighting event, Royal Rumble-style? Last man and woman standing wins. We'd go from 61 events all the way down to 2, which would bring our final total to 168.

We could fit 168 events into a week. Maybe even five days.


2) And yet, jet packs aren't allowed in the high jump?

Not that I especially want to see Michael Phelps strutting around in a speedo again, but how the hell is this not cheating?

I saw a guy on the Today Show trying to justify these new suits by saying something along the lines of, "It's not like they have propellers or anything." No, but if you put two evenly-matched swimmers against each other, the guy wearing the LZR suit is going to blow the other one away. Aren't the Olympics supposed to be about celebrating athletes' achievements, not Speedo's R&D Department's?


3) No football

Real football, of course, not that stupid soccer that we for some reason allow other countries to get away with calling football. It's utterly baffling that considering all the questionable sports that are represented in the Olympics, the greatest sport in the world gets no love whatsoever.

Now obviously, even if football was an Olympic sport, there would never be an NFL Dream Team. Aside from the fact that the players are busy with training camp and preseason games around this time, no owner would allow his star player to risk getting hurt. Which is as it should be. After all, in terms of importance, an NFL season--any NFL season--is much, much more important than the Olympics.

But we could use college players. We could use players who are out of college, but didn't get drafted. We could even use Arena League players. (But only if we're really desperate.)

4) If I want a biography, I'll watch A&E

The shelf life of the average Olympic athlete is shorter than any other. They come, they compete, they go away. Maybe they'll return in four years. Maybe not. It really doesn't matter. As such, I don't need to know their life stories. I don't need to know what they've overcome to get here. I don't need to see their family members interviewed. Sure, we're cheering them now, but in a month, most of us could pass these people on the street and not recognize them even if they were wearing their medals around their necks.

Remember when the original Dream Team played Croatia in 1992, and Toni Kukoc got a lot of attention because afterwards, he was going to come here and play for the Bulls? That's the benchmark. Unless they're going to join an American sports team after the Olympics, I don't want to hear anything about them.

5) Hobbits

How did women's gymnastics become the premiere Olympic sport in this country? And why does it seem like the United States genetically engineers girls just for this event, with just the right combination of cuteness and compactness?

Look at this year's model:

Ugh. My teeth hurt just looking at her. She even comes with the perfect all-American name: "Shawn Johnson." Nike's marketing department couldn't come up with anything better.

I'd love it if Team USA adjusted the levels in the chemical vats they grow these girls in. Maybe make them a little taller. A little older. A little more attitude, a little less adorable. Something like this:

And finally, for balance, one reason why I love the Olympics:

Fuck you, France! USA! USA! USA!

Panel of the Week

From Crossed #0:

Final Crisis #3

"You heard me right. Cancel my fight with Killotron tonight. I'm on a mission from the gods." - Sonny Sumo

Don't be fooled by the cover. If you're expecting 30 pages of a chick sporting a belly shirt and a come hither look, you're going to be disappointed. Supergirl barely appears in this issue, and when she does, it's to tell her cat not to pee in her laundry basket while she's gone.

Unfortunately, I'm not kidding.

The good news is that the cover is the low point of the issue, and everything else is pretty good. No mean feat, considering how the first two issues ranged from the average to the truly dire.

Spoilers below Lex Luthor trying to remind us who's boss.

Anyone who hoped Grant Morrison had gotten his various self-indulgences out of the way in the first two issues is going to be disappointed, but at least here, they're not quite so flagrant. In fact, by about the halfway mark, he's ready to get down to business. And thank God, because it didn't come a moment too soon.

Libra, who up until now, has been the most interesting part of the story, barely gets any screen time at all. But what there is is excellent, as his agenda is finally revealed and we find out that he's been working with Darkseid this whole time. And as someone who's grown somewhat tired of stories where Luthor bullies characters who could tear him to shreds without breaking a sweat, it's good to see someone else making Luthor his bitch for a change.

Sonny Sumo (who I had no idea was a Jack Kirby creation when last issue came out) and the Super Young Team also pop up briefly, and just like with last issue, this is really where Final Crisis #3 shines. If Morrison doesn't do something with these characters after the end of this miniseries, I'm going to be really disappointed.

And finally, the stated purpose of this series, "What if evil actually won?" is put into motion, as we find out exactly what Morrison has been talking about this whole time. At this point, I'm not really sure what to make of it. On one hand, the end of the world came via everyone on Earth getting...an email? Really? That seems just a bit cheap. And the whole "heroes arrive in an apocalyptic future via time travel" bit has been done to death, by X-Men, Heroes, and God only knows how many other stories over the years. But I'm hopeful that with the derivative set-up out of the way, Morrison has something a bit more original in mind for the second act.

On the plus side, as comic book cliffhangers go, having a grotesquely transformed Wonder Woman growling, "Superheroes. Kill." has to rank way up there, so I'm at least somewhat encouraged about the prospects for the rest of the series.

There was one thing that really bugged me, though: While the idea of Article X, the "superhero draft" sounds good on paper, since when do superheroes need to be drafted in the DCU? They'll gather for anything, at the drop of a hat. Any hat. If they were willing to free up their schedules for Green Arrow and Black Canary's bachelor/bachelorette parties a few months ago, do they really need to have their arms twisted to show up and save the world?

What Would George Costanza Do?

Every now and then, life takes a Seinfeld-ian twist, and veers into the slightly absurd. As a result, you're sometimes forced to make a tough call. Do you play along, and continue on the path the universe has set out for you, enjoying its possible rewards (sitting next to a model in first class, ending up working for the Yankees, etc.) or suffering its consequences (like being thrown into the Hudson River in a sack or spending a year in prison)? Or do you play it safe, and just walk away?

Simple. You walk away. Because the possible consequences far, far outweigh any possible rewards, especially since the rewards are always short-lived. Yes, Jerry sits next to a model on the plane and gets her number, but not long after, she dumps him because she thinks she saw him pick his nose. Yes, George gets a job with the Yankees, but he grows to utterly despise it and essentially ends up trapped there.

So when you come to this sort of fork in the road, you should ask yourself one simple question: What Would George Costanza Do? And then do the opposite.

Last week, I was in Farragut Square on my lunch break. It was nice out, so I sat down on one of the benches, and flipped through this week's City Paper for a few minutes. After I was done, I pulled my BlackBerry out of my pocket to check my email, then stood up, and started walking towards Park Place Gourmet to grab something to eat. When I was just about to cross I Street, I reached into my pocket for the $20 I'd recently gotten from the ATM, just to make sure it was still there.

It wasn't.

I checked my other pocket. Nope. I checked my wallet. Nope. I mentally retraced my steps, stopping when I got to the part where I'd pulled my BlackBerry out of my pocket. With a sinking feeling, I realized that the twenty had been in the same pocket, and I'd probably accidentally pulled it out as well.

I headed back to the bench, hoping against hope it was still there. And had I been about thirty seconds faster, it would have been. Unfortunately, I was about fifty feet away when I saw a guy walking by where I'd been sitting. He glanced down at the bench, and slowly came to a stop, looking very much like someone who had unexpectedly found twenty dollars just sitting on a bench.

Shit.

But hey, it wasn't the end of the world. He looked like a decent enough guy. Maybe if I explained to him what happened, he'd give it back. If not, well, whatever. It was only $20. That's a trip to the comic book store or a week's worth of energy drinks. No big deal. Frankly, I wouldn't even have blamed him for not returning it. I am, after all, a big believer in the legal doctrine of finders keepers.

Unfortunately, he was a little bit too decent. Rather than grab the twenty himself, he took a couple of steps over to a guy on another bench, who, if wasn't homeless, wasn't too far off. Guy #1 nodded over to the bench and said something I was too far away to hear. Guy #2 stood up, walked over, picked up my twenty (now his twenty, really), and sat back down, looking rather pleased at his unexpected good fortune.

Shit.

And this is when I came to my big decision: What Would George Costanza Do?

George would have gone up to the homeless guy. He would have chuckled nervously and said something like, "Uh, excuse me, sir? That's actually my twenty you have there. See, I left in on that bench over there."

The homeless guy would have told him to go screw himself.

George would have then made an offer that he felt was generous, but would have actually been ridiculous, such as offering the homeless guy a dollar in exchange for the twenty.

The homeless guy would have told George to go screw himself more emphatically.

George would have then come unhinged. He would have gotten red in the face, started sputtering, and eventually tried to grab the twenty and run off. At which point, given the rules that govern the Seinfeld universe, one of three things would happened:

1) A nearby police officer would have seen this and arrested him, leading him away as George kept protesting that it couldn't possibly be theft because it was his $20.

2) While running off, he would have run right into his latest girlfriend or infatuation, who would have been horrified at his behavior and vowed never to speak to him again.

3) The whole thing would have been taped by someone on their cellphone, and would have ended up on YouTube, and quite possibly on Keith Olbermann's "Worst Person In the World" segment. (YouTube and Olbermann obviously weren't around circa Seinfeld, but you get my point.)

Even if I'd simply gone up to the homeless man, asked for the money back, and let the matter drop when he told me to go screw myself, I still would have been the guy who had asked a homeless man for $20. And that's almost as bad as actually trying to take it from him.

So I just walked away. I was $20 poorer, but I still had my pride, knowing that I'd successfully avoided the Seinfeld-ian trap the universe had laid out for me.

But as anyone who's seen the Final Destination films knows, you can't escape your fate. Something happened yesterday where I failed to recognize another WWGCD? moment for what it was, and by the time I had, it was too late and I'd already committed my Costanza-esque faux pas. I can't go into details about this one (the hardships of anonymous blogging), but you know how at the end of a lot of Seinfeld episodes, two totally unrelated characters or plots somehow intersect? Something like that happened. And it sucked.

I love you, preseason football!

1) Okay. I know it was the first preseason game of the season. I know that few of the starters for either team played, and those who did weren't in for very long. I know this game was about as insignificant as a football game possibly can be.

But based on what I saw--and I mean this in all seriousness and with not even a trace of homerism--we're going to win the Super Bowl this year. Possibly the next five years.

2. Considering that Jason La Canfora has repeatedly said that Colt Brennan isn't ready to be a quarterback in the NFL, and won't be ready for years, if ever, Brennan looked astonishingly good last night. Yes, it was against the Colts' second and third string defensive players, and I'm not ready to kick Jason Campbell to the curb or anything, but this can't bode well for Todd Collins. Which might be for the best, as he'd probably be happier in St. Louis with Al Saunders and Al Saunders' playbook. As happy as one possibly can be in St. Louis, anyway.

3) "Okay, Taylor. They say you're a defensive end. You're sure not much of a dresser. We wear sleeves at this level, son." - Lou Brown, Major League (paraphrased)

4) After Art Monk's amazing Hall of Fame acceptance speech on Saturday, I had this irresistible urge to own an Art Monk jersey. I would have even paid the ridiculous prices the Redskins charge for replica jerseys, if it meant I could have it this week while the entire area is still basking in the Monk love. Unfortunately, Redskins.com isn't selling them. (A grave and costly oversight that Dan Snyder ought to have someone killed for.) The only Monk-related piece of merchandise on the site are mini-helmets signed by him and Darryl Green for the totally reasonable price of only $425.

In the New Items section of the store, though, they are offering a whopping 91 new pieces of Redskins merchandise. Some makes sense. Some seem redundant. (How many different styles of hats does one team really need to stock?)

Others are just bizarre:

Call me crazy, but I don't think the women who can afford $3,000 handbags or $325 compacts are the type of women who follow football. At least, not to the extent that they'd ever be seen in public with burgundy and gold accessories that look like they were made with a Bedazzler. And gnomes? Professional Photoshop jobs for schmucks who want to pretend they're teammates with Clinton Portis and Chris Cooley? Geez, Dan. Really? Wouldn't it be easier to just raise ticket prices by a buck?

5) I've given Snyder as much crap as anyone for his poor management decisions, control freak tendencies (his purchase of Extreme Skins was especially grotesque), and alarming habit of maiming innocent people at Six Flags. But I don't get the outrage over his decision to launch an official Redskins blog. Will it be a hard-hitting example of sports journalism at its finest? Probably not. But who cares? So far, it seems to be a fun bit of fluffy PR with the occasional keen insight thrown in. Matt Terl officially has the greatest job in the world, and people hate him for it. Understandable, but disappointing.

6) God help me, I'm actually thinking about going to the Eastern Motors car show at Redskins Park this weekend. It's been a long time since I've attended this sort of event, and I find myself sort of curious about the experience. And after the sheer amount of joy the Easterns song has brought me over the years (I'm singing it now!), it seems like I ought to give something back.

Panel of the Week

From Joker's Asylum: Two-Face #1: