September: Fin.

We produce a lot of posts every month. Most of them disappear quickly. Some of them don't. Here are the 10 most popular posts from September, ranked low to high.

A couple Lions fans celebrated their team's historic victory with a spot of lower-bowl grab-ass that ended with the two of them re-enacting the Ned Beatty piggy scene from Deliverance. And Detroit was happy once again.

Jerry Jones sold 30,000 "party passes" for the regular-season debut of his new football palace, where, in a standing-room section, every passholder was treated to great views of 29,999 other passholders. The scene turned briefly into something out of Lord of the Flies. Sucks to your pass mar!

This lass had a message for Jesus Christ Football Star, and she wore it on her shirt. It's tough to see here, but please note the gray-haired lady in back, looking on in slowly dawning horror.

Chargers linebacker Shawne Merriman was arrested for allegedly choking his girlfriend, Internet creature Tila Tequila. The case against Merriman was eventually dropped, but he was nonetheless tried and convicted in the high court of Tila Tequila's Twitter account.

A day after LeGarrette Blount decked Byron Hout, Dash made the persuasive argument that the smirking jackass who started it all got exactly what was coming to him.

The bold-face-type enthusiasts of Fire Joe Morgan reunited for one glorious day on our site and, afterward all that was left of poor Allen Barra was a couple mindlessly contrarian opinions and some hair.

Someone dug up an ancient video of a skeevy Cris Collinsworth in which he declared, absurdly: "I like girls that aren't too bright because you can trick 'em a little bit...high school girls love me. Fourteen to eighteen, I'm a big star with them." And then, even more absurdly, he apologized — and not for that Cosby sweater.

Football, as choreographed by Bob Fosse.

In a handicapped stall at Cowboy Stadium, a guy in a Michael Irvin jersey decided to do to a woman what Jerry Jones did to 30,000 fans with Party Passes. We got the video.

And, lastly, there are the Salisbury-Daulerio Letters, a correspondence that stretched across three batshit posts. It was, as AJ noted, the meltiest media meltdown of them all. Sean has not been heard from since. Nor have we heard from his attorneys and "powerful Pr firm .. from NYC." He is out there, though. Somewhere. I like to imagine him on a beach on South Padre, sipping a tall, fruity drink and pecking away at his ESPN tell-all, espn exposed. He nears the end of the book. He thinks for a moment. He considers a passing cloud. And then he taps out the last line, a line to rival them all — Fitzgerald, Hamlet, Bogie to Claude Rains. Sean Salisbury looks at the screen and smiles wryly. "Sent," it reads, "from my iPhone."