"They say Ricky Watters blacks out anytime he sees a green shirt."

So far as I can tell, the only thing I missed from the blogosphere last week was the return of the Emo Eagles fan.

But it's fucking awesome.

Down some dark defile of the mind, terra incognito to the blithe and bourgeois notions of normalcy, lies a swath of consciousness shrouded in a substance as dark as Kevin Curtis is light. Shawn Andrews has seen this place. So, too, have I. Indeed, I’ve felt its wintry contours and been contained within its clammy manacles.

There is no 4th and 26 in this place.