Contributing to this week's edition of the Carny Sports Report is Billy Badlands, an employee of Bruno Brothers Traveling Amusements Company:

Billy has been asked to write about several of the recent head coaching developments in the NFL.

So I'm mindin my own business, doin what the hell it is I do. I got me this real ripe rube roped in nice and good. I mean he's wingin softballs around like he was Gaylord Perry on a meth rampage and he hasn't knocked down not one milk bottle. He's already dropped 75 bucks tryin to win him a 5 dollar wall bass that sings "Way Down Yonder on the Chatahoochie" and I can see in his face he ain't gonna stop till he gets it. He's gettin ready to sign over the deed to his double wide for eleven more throws when this long haired shifty eyed squirelly son bitch comes up to me and starts talkin about his blog.

Now I didn't know a blog from a booger sandwich, but judgin on the looks of this guy talkin to me, I reckoned it had somethin to do with traiterous pinko homosexual activity that I wouldn't want nothin to do with. But after he broke it down I figured it wasn't so bad and didn't have much of nothin to do with gayness. It's pretty much just writin about sports and whatnot. He said he hadn't been havin time to write on his blog lately and asked me if I would write some stuff for him about coaches in the NFL and the hirin and firin of them coaches.

Now I don't have a butt load of time to watch sports like all you lazy desk job workin son bitches. The day to day of a carnival hand is hecticker then hell. On a GOOD day the heat lets me sleep till 7:30. Then I usually eat me a couple two day old funnel cakes for breakfast and spend a couple hours smokin before the gates open. Then I usually stay at my post for 13 straight hours. But I do manage to catch some sports from time to time. On my day off last week I sneaked away to watch GLOW live. GLOW stands for Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling for all you sophisticateds who think you too good to watch a couple fine ass ladies in thong one pieces beat each other about the head. And I got me a 12 inch B&W TV in my hitch with coat hanger rabbit ears for recepshion gathering that I got as a special raward from the boss for discoverin that Paco, the kid that mopped up puke in the Gravitron was an illegal. So I'll try and talk about what's goin on in sports as best as I can. And if you don't like it then I can really give a rats ass.

So first off it looks like everyone in Miami has their balls all twisted in a four square knot cause coach of the Dolphins Nick Saban decided to go coach in Alabama. First of all, what in the name of h-e-double hockey sticks happened to Dan Shula? He was coachin up a storm last I knew. Anyway, I guess this Nick Saban took off to Alabama and left all them Miami homosexuals wearin cut off shorts and sippin umbrella drinks with no coach to tell em whats what. All I can say is, how can you blame a man for wantin to go to Alabama? Let me tell ya, I had me some good ass times in 'Bama. Like one time I met me this sweet little mother of four at the West Alabama State Fair in Tuscaloosa, and had me a encounter behind the Tilt-A-Whirl you wouldn't believe. All I can say is she was double-jointed and it was like rompin with a Barbie doll. My buddy Earl said she looked more like a Stretch Armstrong but I don't give a good God dam about that. It was funner then hell and if I was Nick Saban I would be packin my bags for Alabama faster'n you could say "put them ankles behind your head Misty Sue."

Then I heard the Atlanta Falcons fired their coach Jim Mora Jr. because he went on radio sayin he wanted to take another job. Now I don't know this Jim Mora Jr. from Billy Badlands Jr. (I don't know him neither, despite the $32.70 in yearly child support), but he must be one simple minded son bitch. Trust me theres particular jobs that require you have some sensitivity and tactfullness. Like for exxample when I first got my start with the carnival I was given the deleckit task of workin the weight gessin booth. Now if that ain't a job just drippin' with danger then you tell me what the hell is. I'm standin there when all of a sudden some rube comes struttin up with his girlfriend what looks like post 68 comeback special Elvis Presley and asks me to guess her weight. So I have to get my mind workin fast as hell to come up with the right answer, or I'm riskin getting a switchblade buried handle deep in my gonads. I have to look at her and say she's 110 pounds when I know her moustache weighs at least 40 on its own. Sometimes this carnival work ain't no picnic at all. But anyway, this Jim Mora, Jr. shoulda known better. He deserves to be lookin for work but I got some advice for him. Don't come sniffin around the Bruno Brothers Traveling Amusement outfit for gainfull employing. We got ourselves a hiring process here that weeds out shiftless traiterous weasels. All I can say is two words: Chinaman water torchure.

Last but not least, some Dennis Green guy got fired by the St. Louis Cardinals for no other reason then he pretty much sucked harder than my Aunt Lucy (don't get all pissified about that coment neither. shes my aunt twice removed, so it's ok). My answer to this one is who cares. It's bad enough that these Cardinals is so big for they britches that they play two damn sports, but they won the friggin World Series of baseball last year! How much is gonna be enough for you Cardinals? Thats like if I went out and tried to get a job dancin on the trapese in the circus after carnival season was over just cause I could. First of all I wouldn't never do that cause circus folk is a bunch of inbred motherless commie punks I took a blood oath to hate for the rest of my days, but second of all I wouldn't do that cause I don't need to show off all the damn time like a friggin wombat on a tricycle. My advice to the St. Louis Cardinals is to stick to damn baseball and stop tryin to be like that one kid on the playground who always wips out his dong just to show everyone he's got the biggest one.

By the way, I ALWAYS had the biggest one. My dong is a family hair loom.

That's it for me. I got more important things to do then sit around pushin buttons on one of these tiny little travelin computers. I just found out that my buddy Dale was cleanin out the prize storage trailer and came across a case of "Not My President" bumper stickers left over from the Clinton years. We gotta burn them things before they get in the wrong hands. If you're gonna be at the Hallard County fair next week stop by the milk bottle knock down and say howdy, especially if youre a 4 H girl. You my favorites.

**All contributors to the Carny Sports Report receive an ice cold sixer of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a gift certificate to Willy Joe's Crystal Meth Emporium.

It was like a scene from a bad movie, a very unpatriotic bad movie. Like perhaps Too Wong Fu, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar or Armageddon if it didn't have Bruce Willis in it (he's a real man, that Bruce Willis).

The US Open, that old-timey down-home tennis institution, played every year by a few sturdy American athletes and a bunch of foreigners, came to a conclusion with an American ready to dominate the final. And not just any American. This was Andy Roddick. The guy who turned Mandy Moore's knees into jello. A bastion of Americanness.

But something was amiss. The celebrities were out in full force for the event (so I'm told, I really didn't watch it), but something still just didn't feel right. Tiger Woods, the most recognizable American athlete on the planet, was spotted by television cameras sitting in the crowd as a special guest of Roddick's competition, Roger Federer, a self-proclaimed citizen of Switzerland.  And Woods was cheering for Federer. Poor Roddick just couldn't overcome that kind of treachery, and lost in four sets. 

Not since Wesley Snipes donned a dress and extensions has America been so insulted.

On the surface this seemed to be nothing more than one man's trite act of hatred for his own country, like spitting on the Liberty Bell or calling Thomas Jefferson "lard ass." But this goes much deeper than that superficial analysis. The real truth is buried deeper, and I'm here to tell you, loyal readers, it is horrifying.

Tiger Woods is a Swiss spy.

It all makes perfect sense now. Oh those sneaky Switzerlanders! Those 150 years of neutrality were nothing more than an elaborate ruse! A devious plan to lull the world into a chocolate-induced coma before striking full-force at the infrastructure of international democracy. But a plan like that needs operatives. A plan like that needs top class spies who can get into the most secure places on the planet, dine with dignitaries, and sleep with hoards of Stanford coeds.

Enter golf phenom Tiger Woods.

Think about it. Tiger Woods marries, out of nowhere, a Swedish nanny. SWeden is very similar to SWitzerland in spelling, blondes per capita, and extreme political radicalism. Then he signs on to endorse Tag Heuer watches, which are made, conveniently enough, in Switzerland. Coincidence? You tell me watchful American readers.

Recently, unmanned paparazzi spy planes en route to snap topless photos of Heidi Klum and hopefully not Seal in Germany discovered a massive Swiss Intelligence compound tucked away in the Alps. Closer examination of the photos revealed the complex contains numerous facilities used in espionage, including elaborate topographical maps (complete with very accurate ridges for all U.S. mountain ranges), a sausage laboratory, and a driving range. A driving range!

That we have discovered Tiger's loyalties at this point can only be seen as a fateful bit of luck. His original mission, as sent to him in a directive by Swiss Intelligence director Tobe Lerone, was to attend the US Open Final, wearing a Toby Keith T-shirt and cheering for Roddick like he was witnessing the best downhill luge race in history. This was intended to throw off any pesky American intelligence officials who were getting suspicious. But transmission of the message was interrupted, causing only a fraction of the mission statement to be transmitted to Tiger (or as he's known in Swiss spy circles "Agent Chompers"). Using top-secret decoder rings, that portion of the transmission was intercepted. It said only "InFILtraTE yaNKEe mAtch OF TenNis BaLL."

The logo on Tiger's hat is not a "T" and a "W." Squint your eyes and you'll notice it's a hand flipping America the bird.

We must act now to counter this cut-throat act of global espionage. If Tiger Woods is allowed to continue at this pace he will be able to outfit entire army units in highly disguising green jackets for combat. Can you imagine the horror? An entire army clad in green jackets and able to carry assault rifles, anti-aircraft weapons, toenail clippers and a toothpick in one convenient little pocket knife?

It's time for Tiger Woods to take his place in the pantheon of American traitors next to the likes of Benedict Arnold, Leopold, Loeb, and Hasselhoff. You can play on our Ryder Cup teams and you can count your victories in Majors as American ones, but after that, watch your back. You are dead to us Tiger Woods. Or would you prefer to be called Agent Chompers?

It usually starts around March with proclamations of rabid optimism throughout greater New England.

The Boston Red Sox are gonna have a wicked good year. Conservatively, and I'm talking conservatively, I'd say somewhere around 120 wins, give or take five or six. Schilling and Beckett will finish in a tie for the Cy Young, and the Yankees will be dead in the water by mid-June.

If you're fortunate enough to know a Red Sox fan, (a real New England Sox fan, as in Dunkin' Donuts and Boston Baked Beans; the kind of guy that knows "Pudge" means Carlton and not Ivan) this is the type of good-natured banter that bombards you as winter recedes into its annual death throes. Like that local news weatherman who always manages to get it wrong, the Sox fan assures because he believes. And in the end you admire him for his stoic conviction, even though you end up caught in the rain with nothing to keep you dry but a pair of Ray-Bans and a beach towel.

I happen to be friends with one of these Sox fans, a native Bostonian who relocated to Southern California several years ago, bringing little more with him than visions of bottle blonde beach babes and an undying love for the Sox. My die-hard devotion to the Oakland A's has created a healthy rivalry between us, one that manifests itself in workday trash talk emails throughout the season. For the sake of anonymity, I'll refer to this friend of mine using the alias Willy Mo Doe.

From the euphoric enthusiasm of early Spring, to the catastrophic devastation of recent weeks, the ups-and-downs of the Red Sox season have been reflected in these emails. I wanted to write something eulogizing the Boston season. I wanted to do the nose dive poetic justice, but I can't possibly do so using my own humble words.

I can, however, use his words to great effect.

So here it is, the 2006 Boston Red Sox season, every plateau and valley viewed through the cut-and-paste statemets of a regular Boston dude who has lived and bled every moment of it. I haven't changed a thing. Enjoy the roller coaster ride:

1/30/06
Sox got our CF...Much better deal than Damon

3/6/06
David Wells told Theo today that he wants to stay! Yes! This is huge. Our starting five now looks like: 1. Schilling 2.Wake 3.Beckett 4.Wells 5.Clement. White Sox, A's, and us have the top 3 staffs in the league.

3/27/06
PS. Sox are going to destroy the A's this year! Season series 8-2 in favor of the Red Sox. Thomas will be on the DL by May and Milton Bradley will be in jail by September. Same story in the Theo era is make the playoffs, embarrass the A's along the way, and win it all or lose to the team that does. I LOOK FOR MORE OF THE SAME THIS YEAR.

4/6/06
Nice 2 out of 3 from NY is good all around but the story of last night was the Red Sox. Beckett 7 strong for the win and a Schillingesk fire and emotion on the mound that will be a huge rally point for the team. Our new closer the 95+mph 2nd year player Papelbon closing them out in the 9th to take 2 of 3 from TX. If Beckett says healthy watch out....A much improved D and bullpen and this could be our year again!!!... I can't wait for Sox v. A's.

4/21/06
I'm hearing that Clemens is leaning toward a return to the Red Sox! He will go into the HOF with a Sox cap and his next win will make him the franchise all time winner breaking his tie with Cy Young...More to come on this soon. 20 Million 1 year is fine with me. He was my hero growing up!

5/23/06
Good thing the Sox have nothing but "old broken down" guys in their rotation. I mean with their average age of their starters that must mean that they are "all done" and would never stand up to a young staff like the A's huh...so much for that argument. You're are way off one this one brodude. These guys are horses...I like the fact that you keep bringing up October because the Sox will be there, but the A's remain in doubt.

6/15/06
Also, Theo is just getting started dealing. Look for a blockbuster trade for stating pitching coming up and a few under the radar deals as well. See you in October!!!

6/27/06
Ortiz is the MVP of the AL this year. He is the Tom Brady of MLB. There is no one else I want at bat with the game on the line. 3 walk offs in the last 8 games! Papelbon is the Rookie of the year/AL All-star closer. And speaking of moves, the Sox have won 8 in a row and all this before Theo makes his midseason moves! Go Sox.

6/28/06
A very exciting day for Boston sports today. Beckett and the hottest team in baseball, the Sox winners of 10 in a row, vs. Pedro and the AAA National League Mets. Yesterday's game was good too. He got a huge ovation after they showed a highlight clip on the big screen. Today will be an Instant Classic.

6/29/06
The Sox on the other hand are Red Hot! 11 in a row!! Longest win streak since '95. Beckett is 10-3 and we have Schilling going today. We are destroying the NL right now and I love it!

7/3/06 (All-Star Break)
Sox are well represented even though Schilling and Beckett, both 10 game winners, got snubbed because teams like the A's have to send their ace to meet the MLB 1 per team min. requirement.

7/24/06
Sox need 2 of 3 to split the season series and bring our trash talking to a draw, with you holding onto the hope the A's slip into the playoffs. I will say that tonight's game will set the tone for the rest of this series. If we get to Zito (who has been red hot) then the A's will be hard pressed not to get swept.

7/26/06
See you in Oct...if you're lucky...

7/27/06
Theo and his guys are far ahead of the curve. This is a very special time for us. For years we struggled with GM?s but the wonder boy makes me very happy we didn't give Billy Beane all that money and he stayed home.


8/4/06
Javy Lopez....what a pick up. He will fill in great for V-tek. Watch his bat heat up. That would be huge.

8/9/06
It's too early to hit the panic button. This is our toughest stretch overall due to the injuries but I remain confident that we will be able to overcome the injuries and get it together in enough time. IT'S ONLY AUG 9TH!!

8/11/06
We are at the low point of our season. Only place to go is up from here. Getting swept by the royals just shows how important our Captain is. The little things he does..........f-in s*cks

8/17/06
Ups and downs my friend. We needed that win last night and we got it (and so did the red hot A's) 5, I repeat 5 games with the Yankees this weekend so we will see a lot of good baseball, plus a good measure of what is left in the tank. This series is followed by 3 out here vs. LAA which I will be attending.

8/19/06
You mean Willy Nooooooooooooo...........If we have a bad weekend "we're done."


8/21/06
It's looking like the West is theirs especially after the Sox give me my final hurrah this week when they come to town to play the Angels. I'll be there at all 3 games

8/22/06
I'm protesting the Sox game today. I don't want to spend my hard earned money watching Kyle Snyder pitch for us, especially after this weekend. I'm waiving the white flag on the season. I have watched enough baseball to know that his year's team doesn't have enough healthy players to make a serious run. F- the wild card. I won't settle for anything less than the division and with the acquisition of Abreau and his .500 OBS the MFY's (mutha effing Yankees) will be hard to beat!  It's unfortunate but it's how it goes sometimes.

And now the Sox are done and there is nothing. No outrageous predictions, no emails, no baseball talk. Our conversations have mysteriously shifted to cover the budding NFL Season. Now there is only the eerie quiet of a season once so full of promise, so laden with expecations, reduced to nothing more than a distant memory dribbling between the first baseman legs of fate.

*****Writer's Note: This post was actually written Friday afternoon, but because the writer is a moron of epic proportions, he forgot to post it and it was lost to his work computer all weekend. Please enjoy this entirely outdated and obsolete piece of sportswriting with that in mind.

I should be feeling fantastic today. It's casual Friday and I'm sitting at my desk without much work to do, an unobstructed window my portal to the Southern California afternoon sunshine. Labor Day weekend is looming, complete with a full compliment of quality College Football games. There might as well be friggin' leprechauns doing the Roger Rabbit all around me.

But if there were leprechauns doing the Roger Rabbit within leg's reach of me, rest assured I'd kick the crap out of every one of them. I'm in a foul mood. I'm exhausted. I'm barely functioning after only a few measly hours of sleep last night.

Why you ask? I decided to stay up until nearly 3:00 this morning to watch what will henceforth be known in the annals of American sports history as the Felafel Debacle. Greece 101 - USA 95.

Cue the basketball experts at all the publications and television networks. Cue Stephen A. Smith yelling at someone. Cue the excuses about the team not having enough time to practice together, not enough time to "gel." Get the FIBA rule book out and explain how the wider lane, different definition of goaltending, and restrictions on physical play serve as disadvantages for the American players and give international teams the edge. We'll be hearing all of that for weeks now as the basketball media looks for debate fodder in the basketball vacuum leading up to the opening of training camps.

We have a right, as American sports fans, to be a bit bitter these days. First the World Baseball Classic and now this. Our apple pie sporting institutions invaded by foreign hordes refusing to cower in in the face of our athletic superiority. Last night's loss was just another slap in the face, another slice of humble crow. We have a right to be embarrassed, and in turn, look for someone to blame. But we shouldn't look for scapegoats abroad. FIBA has nothing to do with it.

The reason our humble nation continues to stumble in international roundball competitions is as simple as the two foot jump-stop. It's no more complex than the three man weave.

It's all about fundamentals. At the risk of sounding like a crotchety old basketball purist (Bill Walton), I'd say you could reduce Team USA's pattern of international failure down to the disregard our developing players display for the simple things that make a team successful.

For those of you who braved the wee small hours of the morning to watch the game, think about what you witnessed. Can you recall a single moment in the game when a Greek player made an unnecessary behind the back pass or failed to make the extra perimeter pass to set up a teammate for an open shot? Can you think of a single instance when a member of the Greek team tried to dribble through their legs while surrounded by four defenders, losing the ball in the process? How many times did the superstars comprising Team USA commit these basic basketball faux-paus? I was too exhausted to count.

There were two particular aspects of the game that demonstrated the fundamentals gap in beautiful technicolor, the most obvious being the Americans' poor free throw shooting. While struggling to get the Greek lead into single digits in the second half, the American big three of Carmelo Anthony, LeBron James, and Dwayne Wade continuously failed to knock down precious free throws, while the Greeks were superior from the stripe. Last time I checked, the international free throw line is the same distance from the hoop as the NBA free throw line.

But most telling this morning (or was it last night? I'm so very tired), was the US team's complete inability to defend the pick and roll. Possession after possession, minute after minute, the Greek offensive story was the same: bring one of the big men to the top of key, and run the pick and roll with Houston-bound guard Vassilis Spanoulis. No trick plays. No elaborate motion offensive sets. Using a no-frills pick and roll philosophy the Greeks turned the second half into one continuous layup drill, getting to the hoop as easily as they pleased. A steady stream of gangly, awkward-looking players making some of the greatest athletes in the world looked like they were wearing cement shoes on the defensive end.

Essentially, the greatest collection of basketball talent on the planet was beaten because they couldn't do things I was taught to do in basketball camps before I even had hair under my arms (college). 

No disrespect intended to the Greek team, who were certainly impressive. The reigning European champions play a disciplined team game that is impressive to watch, even if it is rarely pretty. With only one (perhaps two) NBA-caliber players on their roster, the Greek team dominated the second half and played the game of their lives when that was exactly what they needed. But let's be honest. In the name of sweet Athena's ghost, there is no way we should have lost that game.

During the commercial breaks that were refreshingly infrequent during ESPN's coverage, Sony Pictures purchased a large portion of the thirty second advertising spots to promote the new film Crossover. The movie, which opened today to a critical bitch-slapping, appears to be the riveting story of a group of urban youths playing a rough and tumble brand of street ball that requires them to slam dunk over rows of Yamaha motorcycles and play in a massive chain-link cage, all the while subjecting themselves to the horror that is Wayne Brady, serious actor.

The previews for this affront to both film and sport got me thinking. I can't help but deduce that the recent struggles of the American national team and the rise of the street ball craze in this country can't be entirely mutually exclusive. Don't get me wrong, I like to see a basketball player dribble the ball off his opponent's face as much as the next guy. And I don't think Oscar Robertson or Bob Cousy could have tucked the ball under their jersey and sprinted down the court with the flair that the And 1 Mixtape players do. The street ball exhibition games are entertaining, and it's not difficult to understand why so many kids are enthralled with the brand of basketball that has given rise to players with names like Hot Sauce and The Professor.

But that's exactly what they are at the end of the day: exhibition games. As long as basketball is played with 13 people on the court (ten players per side and three referees), alley-oops off the shot clock are not going to fly. Somewhere along the basketball time line, probably midway between the four corners offense and Hot Sauce, American basketball passed the precarious point where fundamental skill and raw athletic showmanship met harmoniously. And now the international talent is good enough to expose that flaw in our domestic game.

Street ball alone is not to blame for the diminishing interest the young basketball fan seems to have for the more subtle aspects of the game. The American sporting public in general has become obsessed with the highlight play. The slam dunk, the homerun, and the one-handed catch are the types of plays that get the attention of obnoxious sports anchors. It's hard to justify yelling "Boom-Shaka-Laka," when a guy hits a 15-foot jumper, or "Siyanora Mr. Miyagi!" when he makes a perfect two-handed chest pass. That would be ridiculous. There are numerous factors that have contributed to the holes in American fundamentals, the street-ball phenomenon being only one of the more obvious contributors.

So where do we go from here? Well, I'm going home for the day, still bitter that I'll never get those hours of sweet sleep back. Team USA goes into the Bronze medal game in a matter of hours against an Argentinean group just as disciplined as the Greek team, but more talented and experienced in international competition.

And USA Basketball as an institution? I suppose that remains to be seen. Bringing in Coach K to instill a more disciplined approach was certainly a step in the right direction, but there's only so much he can do. It's starting to look like Wayne Brady will get an Oscar before American ballers dominate the international game the way they once did.

Dearest Punks and Hippies,

I'm a man who enjoys the simple things in life. A good silk jogging suit. Rhinestone glasses and intravenous viagra. But one of my absolute favorite things to do is dress down little weasels who think they know more about football than me. I'm Al Davis. That's right. Ask your great grandmothers who rolled through their towns taking names and they'll tell you it was me, Al Davis.

In my day when you thought a guy was senile you handled it with honor. You snuck him away in the middle of the night, gave him some electroshock therapy and a bit of the old Chinese Water Torture, and the next day he was back at his high stress job, scouring the FBI's most wanted list for new long snapping talent. But after a few of my offseason moves this year I have been hearing about a lot of yellow journalists and internet homosexuals calling me senile and attacking the Oakland Raiders. Let me tell you something. The Raiders are beyond reproach. The greatest franchise in the history of professional sports was created by God himself and given to mankind as an apology for the mosquito. Remember that next time you criticize me, Al Davis.

It all started when I brought back Art Shell as head coach. People said that he was the only one who would take the job, but that's not true. He was the only one who would accept being paid in vouchers for delicious hot wings at local Hooters restaurants. Art Shell is a real Raider. He's old school. He understands how to deal with players. When a player talks back to you the best thing to do is call his mother vile names. If that doesn't work you use violence. That's how you build a winner. The last time I fired Art Shell I made a big mistake. I went on to hire a series of coaches who wanted to earn a competitive wage. I learned my lesson. I may be omnipresent, but I'm still human.

Then people started flapping their gums when we made the decision to hire Tom Walsh as our offensive coordinator. Just because he had been out of football longer than Saturday Night Live has been on the air and was running a bed and breakfast when we called him they think the guy doesn't know football. Let me tell you something. If a guy can get splooge stains out of a California king-size comforter, trim a hedge into the shape of an elephant, and bake peach cobbler for 30 all in the same day, by God I think he can draw up some plays to get Randy Belitnikoff the ball. Sure, we've had to teach him some things about the "modern NFL." We've had to remind him that the goal posts are in the back of the end zone now, but that's beside the point. It reminds me of when I hired John Madden a few years ago. I had to discipline him repeatedly for eating on the sidelines. Every time I looked down there Madden was stuffing his face with turducken. One time I went into the locker room at halftime and he was roasting a pig in there. He'd stapled pork chops to the body and stuffed a Big Mac in its mouth instead of an apple. But we dealt with the situation like men. We dealt with it like Raiders. And now John Madden is a hall of famer, taking his place along great Raiders of the past like Abraham Lincoln, Jean-Paul Sartre, and the great Aztec ruler Cuitlahuac.

And last but not least, everyone's been busting my balls about signing Jeff George the other day. I had no intention of signing Jeff George. I was content to go into the season with our current quarterback roster of Jeff Hostetler, Dan Marino, Vince Leinart and Jean-Claude Van Damme. But then I heard a story that made me rethink my whole philosophy on our season. Two weeks ago Jeff George is sitting around his house in Georgia when his 19 year old Slovenian mail order bride asks him to open a jar of pickles that was being a real bastard. This Jeff George tries to open the jar and shatters it in his hand. The man's right arm is so strong he shattered a whole jar of Vlasic dills like it was made of balsa wood. If that's not the mark of a great quarterback then by God I don't know what is. He can throw the ball far people. And by far, I mean damn far.

So I say this to the Raider Nation, the most loyal, bloodthirsty, and sexually attractive group of fans in America. As your sovereign Lord and master, I command you never to doubt me. I was there when they built the pyramids. I was there at the moment Ken Stabler was conceived when his mother decided to tangle with a bolt of lightening. The glory days of the Raiders are returning. I just heard from a scout that there's a guy who was just arrested here in Oakland for nearly kicking a man's head clean off. If things go well, Sebastian Janikowski might be getting traded.

Piss Off,

Al Davis