Old Crazy Eyes Shall Inherit the Cowboys

First off, I cannot get enough of that picture. We all have a bad drivers license photo. A passport picture where (in my case) you look like a drunken forest sprite. But to have that be your official photo? Wow. I guess the lesson learned here is that there are no second chances in NFL staff pictures.

But more importantly, I do believe we've confirmed what I have suspected for a long time. Peepaw Phillips will probably only be around another year or two but essentially the Cowboys coach is, for all intents and purposes, Jason Garrett. He's turning down head coaching offers from Baltimore and Atlanta to stay on with Dallas. Jerry Jones' sphincter is probably tightening as we speak while he mumbles "two million a year, that's my offer" under his breath through pursed lips. Now don't get me wrong, I love Peepaw more than most people (and though I am not inclined that way, I will even admit that his daughter is ridiculously hot) and was genuinely upset to see his playoff collapse record go unblemished. But he frustrates me sometimes. If I was choosing which NFL coach I would most like to eat s'mores and wear matching footie pajamas with, Wade Phillips is number one with a bullet. With maybe Lovie Smith coming in a distant second. However, a Wade Phillips press conference is quite possibly the most disheartening, disinterested, vaguely depressing and completely apathetic event a human can witness outside watching REM record a new album.

I must admit that I don't remember being particularly blown away by anything I have ever heard Jason Garrett say on camera or into a microphone. But whether it's his youth or his head of flaming red hair, I have to believe that he will be a slightly more enthusiastic cheerleader (not literally although if you've seen how much makeup Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders wear in person, it's not outside the realm of possibilities) than Wade "just give me a biscuit and a cup of buttermilk and let me watch this Perry Mason" Phillips.

I'd also like to bid adieu to Tony Sparano who is leaving his post for the sunny and slightly gay climes of Miami. I don't know what they offered him but I have sat here trolling my mind for what kind of compensation I could be offered to be around Bill Parcells for any extended amount of time. A new car? A house? A guaranteed seat at the right hand side of God's throne for a clear line of sight during the Rapture? Nope, I can't think of anything that could make the Tuna tolerable. I don't mean to be body fascist but Bill Parcells' figure disturbs me deeply.



Bill Parcells shown offering Terrell Owens a sip of his imaginary custom-mixed Route 44 Mr. Pibb/Countrytime Lemonade/red eye gravy drink.

I would also like to bid a premature farewell to Julius Jones. Sorry you can't run the ball well. Take it sleazy wherever you end up, dude.

Now might I suggest that Flozell Adams spend his off-season playing Whack-a-Mole until his reaction time becomes more fine tuned than ohhhhhhh say, Liza Minelli's as she falls from a bar stool? Mmmmmmkay thanks!

And finally, I sure am happy that somewhere out there in the world tonight Tony Romo is teaching Jessica Simpson new and exciting words and numbers and stuff. You kids have fun! Who needs a championship ring when you've got a hot blonde d-list actress to bang while her father whittles a crucifix in the corner? You are truly the Bogart and Bacall of this crazy Who Wants to Skate With Dead Celebrities on an Island of Love? post-apocalyptic world.