From Your Very Special Guest Editor

Last time I wrote on this page, it was with unbridled cautious optimism for Trent Edwards and the 2008 Buffalo Bills. Was I wrong? Yes and no. Well, actually, just yes.

However—in my defense—I am a fucking moron. I mean, just look at some of my patented "sleeper" fantasy football picks:

—Carnell Williams '06

("Trust me, he'll bounce back. Yep, the future looks pret-ty bright for Carnell 'Cadillac' Williams.")

—Some Green Bay Running Back Whose Name I Don't Even Remember '07
("Well, I've never heard of this guy. But someone is going to run the ball in Green Bay, correct? And this fellow, is a football player, correct? I really don't see how I could regret this.")

—Robert Royal '08
("According to BuffaloBills.com, Trent Edwards was practicing routes with him in the off-season! In the off-season! Can you imagine the chemistry??? They think with one mind, they beat with one heart—when one smells of onions, the other smells of onions! How can you go wrong?")

Yeah, so, I'm not much on foresight. That's not to say that I don't still like Trent Edwards. But in the words of one all too prescient commenter:

Dick Jauron is still your coach right?

Yep, you're fucked again.

Right you are, J-No.

Anyway, since we are going to be spending the day together, a quick rundown of my other allegiances:

Basketball: Pistons

Baseball:
15% Tigers, 5% Phillies, 80% Apathy

College Sports: Michigan

Hockey: Theoretically - Sabres. Actually – Apathy.

Ages of Man:
Bronze Age (easy)

Fictitious Deadspin Editor of Yore: a tie between Abraham "Winky" McTaggart and Benito Mussolini

Basketball move that everyone thinks is garbage but I can actually do pretty consistently:
The one where I do kind of a reverse layup over my head after coming through the lane—not because it's a good shot, but because I can't finish (or start for that matter) with my left hand.

Favorite Erin Andrews Fantasy: Our eyes lock. I rip away her microphone, she rips off my nacho hat, and we make love—not once, not twice, but 2.5 times. She quits her job at ESPN, and we rent a small bohemian love nest in Greenwich Village, where we reinvent ourselves in a world of bongos, cheap hashish, and free-verse poetry. After two tumultuous years we finally break up following a three-hour screaming match in the sculpture garden at MOMA.

If you're wondering whether all of my erotic fantasies involve a three-hour screaming match in the sculpture garden at MOMA, the answer is yes.

Right. Let's do this.