The carousel of cranky curmudgeon coaching candidates continues to run through One Buc Place like a Metamucil martini (don't wince, you haven't lived until you've experienced the ultimate in drunken regularity). A veritable who's who of head coaching mediocrity from Wade Phillips to Morris Buttermaker has seized the golden opportunity of the old "It can't get much worse" scenario in Tampa Bay, which has experienced a losing streak not seen since 1976, the year Raheem Morris was actually born and I was rocking out to "Shake Your Booty" on my record player (true story). Now, I'm all for a seasoned head coach to counter three years of young-gry and y-ignorant…but these guys? It's great for the brunch rush at The Colonnade (we get it, Bill, they're old!) but I don't know how much tread is left on some of these tires. That said, I can stomach Mike Sherman. Anybody not afraid to get into the grill of Warren Sapp is alright in my book. (Not to mention anyone who knew who Morris Buttermaker was without Google.)
Who will be the next salt'n'pepper-haired hope? Only time will tell.
"Not too much time, I hope," said God, tapping his wristwatch. (Sorry.)
Speaking of God, the Tebow love/hate fest continues for at least another week after Timmy once again pissed off every smug expert in broadcasting by doing something in his second year that Josh Freeman or Matthew Stafford couldn't do in three, Matt Ryan couldn't do in four, and Carson Palmer couldn't do in nine. Win a playoff game. I can almost hear the collective teeth-grinding. I've also discovered a bizarre irony among the football citizenry.
This article appears in Jan 12-18, 2012.