Brilliant. Dead-on. For once, I'm not exaggerating.

Except, one thing:

There was one other man who could run through a busted play, who could break dozens of tackles, who simply could not be stopped (and I'm not talking about the #44 J. Riggins my brother created).

His name: RB G BROWNS.

No one knew from whence he came, although many speculated "Cleveland." That's silly, of course. But if you managed to get RB G BROWNS on your team in Tecmo Super Bowl III, no man could easily stand against you.

Of course, it didn't hurt to have a fellow named Marino, another named Clark (the wide, not the end), a man mysteriously named M. Duper, and a tight end at the height of his career, a man known only as K. Jackson. And T. Kirby was nothing to sneeze at, once RB G BROWNS came along.

I think I'll go home and play TSBIII tonight.

I say these next two words, not as a curse -- for it is not, no matter how many people use it that way -- but as a recording of the prayer I uttered when I saw the picture here.

Jesus God.

Blood and fire and sulphur and pain. Isolation and darkness and eternal emptiness. Judgment most terrible.

To the bastards who arranged, and performed this: I'll see you in Hell yet.

To the sorts who would see this and excuse it: And you, too.

To those who look at this and say, Yeah, but anti-abortion religious fanatics are worse, or The Jews [this Jewish child] deserve it: The flagstones beneath the paving on the road to Hell are mere words of equivalence. In other words: You, too.

I've said before that one of the few consolations I can take from damnation is that I'll get to see [fill in the irritating celebrity here] suffering there. I was being a smart-ass. I apologize. The single upside is that I'll get to see these wastes of skin suffering there with me.

Ben is a better man than I. No surprise there.

Christ is a loving and merciful God, but let us not forget that he is a terrible God, as well -- one who brooks not harm to the little ones.

Let's rock.