The week was treating me like I had treated the (very) young Mexican prostitute that I utilized in TJ last week. The week was rough, it was relentless and it was finishing too quickly. In fact, I look up and it is already Thursday. How brutal father time can be.

Like that hooker, I was tired, I was sore and I was working too hard. As my picks had gone just two and two last week I mirrored her in yet another way, we were both not making any money. (Can a brother get a quote on the peso-dollar exchange rate? And was that little strumpet using any complex hedging strategies – her revenues are primarily in dollars, yet her costs are exclusively in pesos – sounds like it had been a very uncomfortable fiscal 3rd quarter for her.)

But not unlike that excruciatingly annoying (yet catchy) Madonna (odds are 3-2 that she adds a last name – and the odds are 5-1 that it is Abramovitz, Goldstein or Levy – but who is counting really?) tune, into my week poured a ray of light. In fact it was like Christmas, Kwanza, Mitchell brothers, early Traci Lords films, Alf reruns and Purim all rolled in to one.

Yes, it is true, Davey Wannstedt has finally read (and understood) my column. He took my advice and fell on his sword. If this were Japan he not only would have retired, he would have actually killed himself. I don’t want him to rule this out. It really is the honorable thing to do. Just like the commemoration of Pat Tillman (an American Hero – I am comfortable saying I don’t have the cajones to make the same decision he did) with the wearing of his number, I think we should memorialize the passing of Davey. We should have all the NFL players wear little dunce caps on their uniforms. And I think all the coaches in the league should practice poor clock management, and they should all give up near the end of their games.

If I haven’t been clear enough, Dave Wannsteadt, may you live out your years signing autographs and losing high school football games. I hate you and I think I can speak for everyone in Miami when I say – it is your fault that Ricky retired, eat a dick.

The previous week in the NF of L allowed some time for reflection on the randomness of the universe. And due to my new concentration on Zen Buddhism (my therapist says that it is the only way to really relieve my non-coital stress) I have started to do some chants as I meditate (remember to sound out the elongated syllable)

Chant One – “The Chargers are a Fluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke”

Chant Two – “ Ray Ray is Angraaaaaaaaaaay”

Chant Three – “Carolina let the fucking raiders win”

Chant Four – “Dennis Erickson will be abducted by Al Qaeda soon” This one is more of a wish than a chant. But you all get the message. These help me concentrate when trying to wager.

Special note – thanks for getting hurt Pennington. I was beginning to think that Herm ‘that’s why you play the game’ Edwards was going to have a chance at winning a superbowl. What a relief that he is going back to being a marginal coach.