A savior in green and yellow

After watching the amazing broadcast on Monday Night Football of Brett Favre and his wife and his mid-game montage video and then seeing his wife in the booth and then in the stands and then the booth again and then Tony Kornheiser's touching tribute and then finding out that he's just like a little kid out there, we were inspired. We knew we needed to know more about this mystery man. We knew that there was a possibility he had inspired hope and brought joy to someone out there. Well, we found that person. Enjoy Flotsam's story of Erica Wallace and her life with Packers' quarterback Brett Favre -- a man who has changed the world, a man with a howitzer arm, a man ... a man greater then Gandhi.

Ixonia, Wisc. – The jersey is grimy and faded, barely resembling the crisp green that Mary Wallace remembers when she made the purchase just two years ago. There is a hole the size of a quarter on the left shoulder, a scar whose origin is unknown to the jersey’s buyer. The garment could probably use a wash, and maybe even a replacement.

But for that to happen, Mary would need to ascertain the consent of 9-year-old Erica, and she’s more likely to hit big on the lottery game she plays once a week, when she splits the price of the ticket with two co-workers at Edna’s Diner on 5th and Main.

“That girl loves that jersey more than anything else in the world,” Mary says with a smile, watching her daughter playing on the dining room table in rural Johnson Creek, Wisconsin. She pauses. “Well, I suppose there is one other thing. One person.”

In all reality, that person should be Mary, a single parent who has been Erica’s sole caretaker since she was born on a rainy night in nearby Delafield. But if you asked the little girl, whose ailments often elude the casual glance of a casual onlooker, she would tell you one other person she loves above all else:

“Bwed Farrrr,” she says, exhibiting her speech impediment but still plenty understandable.

Brett Favre.

MONDAY NIGHT AT THE WALLACE HOUSE

Erica hovers near the small television in the kitchen, a hand-me-down electronic that exists as a far cry from the HDTV flat panels possessed by wealthier neighbors not far from the Pleasant View Trailer Park. But the girl doesn’t bother asking for an upgrade; she’s unable to see the difference anyway. As long as she can hear the commentary, and the roar of the crowd when something goes right at Lambeau Field in Green Bay, she is content.

It’s past Erica’s bedtime on Monday night, but Mary has stopped bothering to force her daughter to sleep on nights when the Green Bay Packers play late. Led by 38-year-old living legend Favre, Green Bay stages a miraculous victory over the Denver Broncos, with an 82-yard touchdown pass from its gun-slinging quarterback on the first play of overtime, sealing the victory.

“Bwed Farr!” Erica says triumphantly, aware that her bed time is officially nearing. “Packa win!”

Mary smiles widely at the moment of joy from the little girl who has been dealt so many obstacles in her young life. Mary never was much of a football fan, and is unsure where her daughter has acquired this insatiable taste for the local NFL team, but she has become a Packers fan in support of her daughter’s obsessive interest.

“I don’t even really know how she comprehends the rules, or what’s happening,” Mary says. “I tried to explain some things as best I could a few years back, but a lot she just picked up on her own. She’s a smart little girl.”

Erica claps loudly and then lets out a yawn, showing her fatigue, as if a switch had been flipped. She’s ready for bed, ready to sleep tightly and dream of Brett Favre and his heroics, the man who has been so much more than a football player. Mary is still smiling, one of many happy expressions that has crossed her face in recent months.

“Sometimes, when they lose, she will let me dress her in a different outfit for school,” Mary says, looking lovingly at the tattered jersey bearing the name “Favre” across the back and the dirty No. 4 on the front. She smiles yet again. “But she’s going to be wearing that for the next few days now. And that’s OK. That is OK.”

MEDICAL MARVEL

Erica was born with only one hand, blindness, and an extreme skin disorder that prevents her from spending any time in the sun. She needed surgeries to correct an obstructed wind pipe at age two, and she underwent a series of gene therapy experiments to correct her dwarfish stature beginning at age seven. She has overcome cholera and a near-fatal case of pneumonia, and she rarely speaks when surrounded by others.

She’s a trouper, according to family physician Larry Murdock.

“I look forward to every visit we have with Erica,” Murdock said. “She’s such a brave kid, and she’s endured more than her share of problems. She’s got a lot of people in her corner, thank goodness. And, of course, she has Brett Favre. Thank goodness for him.”

Charitable donations and assistance from Wisconsin foundations have helped to finance Erica’s medical care, but Mary becomes downtrodden when she talks about it. She wants to do more for her little girl, but holding a steady job has been difficult since her husband disappeared off the coast of Haiti mere months before Erica was born.

“I have a hard time looking a lot of these generous people in the eye,” she says. “I don’t want to always be reaching for help, but there’s just nothing I can do. We’ve had a lot more people help us out since they found out about her love for the Packers.”

Not just the love for the Packers. For Brett Favre. And it was a visit to see Erica’s hero in December of last year that changed everything.

GAMEDAY

Erica didn’t know for sure what the envelope meant, but she knew something good had happened when her mom met her at school one afternoon.

“We gon see da Packa!” Erica recalls.

Two tickets to the final game of the 2006 NFL season had arrived in Mary’s mailbox. There was no return address, no real indication of where they had come from. They were postmarked from an area outside Green Bay, though Mary says no family relatives or friends live in the area.

“They were a gift from someone who knew what this would mean to my little girl,” Mary says, tears welling in her eyes. “It turns out they were a gift from heaven, too.”

Because it was a night game on New Year’s Eve and the dangerous sun was not a threat, Mary was able to take her daughter to Green Bay, a 2 1/2-hour road trip in her occasionally-functioning station wagon. Mary said the check engine light remained illuminated the whole way, and at one point she was worried she had blown a tire. But she made it to Lambeau Field, with just enough cash in her pocket to afford parking and a soda for her ecstatic little charge.

Bundled in four layers of jacket, a ski mask, ear muffs, two scarves, long underwear, socks and moon boots, you could barely make out the little girl beneath Erica’s outfit. There is a picture on the mantle, taken from their seats inside the famed stadium, and even though you can’t see any of her facial features, you can sense the joy exuding from little Erica.

They sat on the 50-yard line and watched the Packers pick apart the Chicago Bears. Erica sat diligently in her seat throughout, never asking to even use the bathroom. She knew when the Packers had done something right, and she knew when the Packers had won.

“Brett Favre helped the Packers a vegtory!” she says, more clearly than her previous statements. It seems like there is progress in her speech patterns, and really, it very well could be true.

Since that day at Lambeau, there has been lots of progress for Erica Wallace. Since seeing her beloved Brett Favre, the gene therapy that seemed to be unhelpful for two years began to take hold, and Mary’s little girl began to grow, now a full six inches taller than when she walked through the Lambeau gates. She became more social at school, and her skin disorder has shown signs of subsiding. Two weeks ago, Erica stayed outside in the sun for two hours without repercussions, and doctors believe she has made a remarkable medical turnaround that could see her rid of the ailment altogether within two years.

“Is it a miracle?” Mary wonders. “I don’t know how you can call it anything else.”

The greatest breakthrough came Thursday, when Erica told Mary she could see vague traces of light.

“Mama! I see the green,” she said proudly to her mother, referring to her trademark jersey. “I can see the number four.”

Murdock admits puzzlement.

“There were so many simultaneous problems with Erica, and it just seems they hit a point where she started to grow out of it,” he said. “We’ve never really seen anything of this nature before, so to say the changes are unprecedented is accurate, but only insofar as her case file is already unprecedented.”

As Erica’s condition improves, and Mary finds herself hopeful for the first time in years that her daughter might someday enjoy a perfectly normal life, Murdock smiles at the thought of a child’s love for Favre having something to do with the developments.

“The mind can do a lot of amazing things,” Murdock said. “You can call him a miracle worker if you want. He makes magic happen on the field and he gives people hope off the field. I’m a believer. Oh, yes. I’m a believer.”

NBA Kickoff Preview

By Guy Ockham
3-2 Zone Proponent

Guy Ockham is the high school boys' basketball coach at Spring Borders High School in Breck, Colo. His teams have compiled a 33-33 record during his two seasons at the school. He's a graduate of Doane College in Nebraska, where he played basketball for two years, averaging 7.3 points and 2.7 rebounds a game for the Tigers. Ockham stresses low dribbling, lateral movement and using the backboard from anywhere on the floor.

Western Conference

The Faves
San Antonio Spurs: Naturally, you have to begin with the Spurs. They're as boring as meatloaf on a Tuesday evening, but this team can sure play ball. Or, at least Duncan, Parker and Ginobili can. Think of the Spurs as the missionary position of the NBA -- efficient and timeless. But nothing to talk about over poker with your buddies.

Phoenix Suns: In contrast, this team is the reverse-cowgirl of the NBA. You'll always be up for it, even when you think you're tired and drunk. Also, they might miss Kurt Thomas' interior defense.

Utah Jazz: I always found this to be such a paradoxical name. I'm not even sure that people listen to music in Utah. I mean, I know they moved, but teams change their names all the time upon moving. This team is good, but not as good as everyone thinks they'll be. They'll regress this year unless Jerry Sloan takes my suggestion to run a 1-2-1-1 three-quarter-court zone trap. It's the only way to utilize Paul Millsap.

Dallas Mavericks: The defensive fundamentals exhibited by this team make me wet in my jorts. Everyone will harp on their early exit from the playoffs last year, but Golden State was just a bad matchup. I expect them to still have the best record in the West. Also, they'll have the hottest fans. I've never met a chick from Dallas I didn't like. Except for Kay Bailey Hutchinson.

The Shit
Sacramento Kings: Place your bets now to see if Ron Artest snaps and kills Reggie Theus or Spencer Hawes first.

Minnesota Timberwolves: Not enough talent on the front line to overcome the much-publicized departure of Mark Blount.

Eastern Conference

The Faves
Detroit Pistons: Every year, people say that this team is a year older, a step slower and will fail. Well, this team is a year older, a step slower and will fail. The solution is spacing the guards on the weak-side wing. Don't get too cramped and they could wind up in the Finals.

Boston Celtic: You know how most of America wants to punch Bill Simmons in the throat? Well, I have.

Chicago Bulls: By far the deepest team in the East. With fundamentally-sound Kirk Hinrich running the ship, they'll be solid. They run better under-the-basket inbounds plays than anyone in the NBA. That's always a critical factor in the second round of the playoffs.

The Shit
Philadelphia 76ers:My junior varsity team could put up 105 points on these guys.

If you're wondering about my title picks, I'm going to surprise you here. My choice, factoring in the hand-checking rule change of 2004, is the Milwaukee Bucks over the Denver Nuggets. In five. Charlie Villanueva for Finals MVP.

You can take that to the bank.

What the hell is a Yawkey?

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Bitches, there is clam chowder all over my costume.

Dog, I have no idea how it got there, but it is tres, tres disappointing. That is some fine linen I'm wearing, ruined by the skanky smell of chowder. Halloween only comes once a year, so I have gots to look my best, and this year I am proudly dressed as the great Conquistador Hernando de Cortes.

Shit, I am a fly looking mofo, if you can forgive that white ooze all over my breastplate. And I don't know what that English professor old man Mike Lowell was thinking, saying I looked like Marvin the Martian. Then again, ain't so bad representing the lone brother from the Looney Tunes. That shit was tight. Goddamn Elmer Fudd cracked my shit up.

I thought it was gonna take a whole lot more alcohol to get me trying out that chowder shit that the smelly local folk mispronounce all the time, but I have no recollection of the past 24 hours. That, my bitches, is what happens when you've had too much Goldschlager with the brunettes of Boston. And also, too much psychedelic cocktails and baseball.

I've been hopping bars with some of the Red Sox since their plane landed last night. I got myself a Flotsam insider interview with the World Series MVP, promptly reminded him what a fine piece of ass his wife was, got kicked out, and then suckered my way past the bouncers pretending to be Hideki Okajima's little broham. Dog, when I squint, I swear we're like twins.

Shit, that's the last thing I remember. I'm pretty sure at some point I started singing the Canadian national anthem with Eric Gagne, and I might have been in a three-way with Jonathan Papelbon. And Jacoby Ellsbury.

Also, I'm pretty sure the phrase "Big Papismear" is a bad one to use around some of these bitches, but I can't be sure. Whatever the case, I know I liked it, and it's a good time to be in Bostonia. The Patriots are fly, the Celtics are about to check out what KG and Ray Allen can do while not passing, and the Red Sox are World Motherfucking Champions. Everybody's happy here, and drunk, and sensationally easy.

I think I'm gonna stay here all week, at least until the damn Patriots win the Super Bowl. I wonder if Goldschlager tastes good with that lingering taste of chowder on my tongue.

Don't be angry

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

I hate Boston.

Quick Marv background: I worked at the Boston Globe in one of my first jobs after graduate school at Columbia. Great staff, great newspaper. Terrible personnel policies. I did a lot of hanging with Bill Russell during that time and he told me all about the women with whom he slept (they loved the cackle. Also, his large penis.). I decided this would be good public information, so I wrote a tell-all column about it for the sports daily.

Well, my editor nixed the thing and said it was inappropriate for public consumption and for a "family newspaper." Well, sticking to my guns, I snuck my way into the pressroom right before print time and re-jiggered the front page of the newspaper so my column appeared intact. The next day, more than a million people learned of the time Bill Russell and Willie Naulls took on 18 New England women in one night.

Having done my public duty and informed the masses, I triumphantly reported to work wearing my favorite fedora and something resembling a smile. I was denied access to the building. I had been terminated.

Of course, I was fine with that. I packed my bags and left for a better place. That place was Lovell, Wyoming.

I hate Bostonians and their cocky attitudes. I hate their accents. I hate their shitty chowder. I hate the traffic. I hate Larry Bird. I hate their harbor. I hate their fake-tough Irish attitude. I hate Robert Frost. I hate "More Than a Feeling." I hate Ben Affleck.

But damn it, I don't hate that the Patriots are beating the hell out of the NFL. That game yesterday against the Redskins -- despite the irony of some patriots pissing all over a team from Washington, D.C. -- was amazing to watch.

Why kick a field goal when you're up 40 in the fourth quarter? Why not go for it on fourth down and score another touchdown? Everyone has their knickers in a bunch over this, but you'd love it if you were a Pats fan.

Plus, you'd do the same thing if you were playing Madden.

This is professional, smash-mouth, hardcore, tea-bagging, showboating football, you fucking crybabies. This isn't the infant retard league (IRL), where everyone needs to leave the game feeling good about themselves so they can find their lives worthwhile. They don't need to feel special. I'm sure the Redskins were fine. The players went home and drank champagne with beautiful women on piles of money and Joe Gibbs went home and put on his slippers and fell asleep during 60 Minutes.

I watch the NFL for entertainment. And the Patriots are entertaining. If I was concerned about etiquette, I wouldn't have fed 15 gallons of applesauce to a gander of geese and set them loose in the Globe's offices after they fired me.

If you want to root against the Pats, fine. If you want to wish injury on Tom Brady, fine. If you wish Bill Belichick to get hit by a MBTA bus, fine. But don't hate them for running up the score on your local football squad.

You can hate them for being from Boston though. I hate Boston.

Monday Night Jihad

We tried assigning a columnist to tackle this story, but really, why do we even need to put a spin on it?

Apparently, Denver Broncos kicker Jason Elam has authored a book about a football player named Riley Covington who goes into combat. Jason co-wrote the book with his pastor and they settled on the clever title of Monday Night Jihad. Wih the deft touch of Tolstoy, Jason weaves together stories of football games and combat battles in the Middle East.

The Rocky Mountain News article has an excerpt from the book. In our opinion, it reads like a Hardy Boys book, mixed with the fictional stylings of Jerry Bruckheimer's little brother. We will just go ahead and close by posting it below for your enjoyment. Jihad on, Jason!

Excerpt, Monday Night Jihad
Bagram Valley

Helmand Province, Afghanistan

His count was off. Second Lieutenant Riley Covington of the United States Air Force Special Operations Command was on watch at a perimeter security post. He had been lying at the top of a low rise, watching his sector, for four hours, and each time he had counted the boulders on the hill across the small valley, he had come up with 36. This time, however, the count reached 38.

"You seeing anything, Taps?" Riley whispered into his com. At the other security post, located on the opposite side of the harbor site, Airman First Class Armando Tapia was stretched out behind a small, hastily constructed rock wall.

"Everything's good to go," came the reply.

WHOOMPF! The unmistakable sound of a mortar tube echoed through the valley below.

"Incoming!" Riley yelled as he opened fire with his M4 carbine at "boulders" thirty-seven and thirty-eight, causing one to stumble back down the hill and the other to remain permanently where it was.

A flare lit up the night sky as heavy machine-gun fire, rocket-propelled grenades, and small arms rounds targeted Riley's ODA. Riley looked to his left and saw an anticoalition militia approaching from the north, right over Tapia's position. Riley, seeing the size of the enemy force, let off a few more three-shot bursts, then bolted back down to the harbor site.

Off to his left, about fifteen meters away, an MK19 automatic grenade launcher was mounted on its low tripod. Riley rocketed out from safety and across the dirt. He stumbled forward, launched himself behind the Mark 19, and let loose.

It took him just under a minute and a half to empty the ammunition can of sixty grenades. The sound was deafening, and the explosions from the shells hitting the enemy positions lit up the night. But RPGs and mortar rounds kept dropping into the camp.

Riley half ran, half staggered over to what remained of his ODA. The rest of his team huddled around him and he took a quick head count. Not good. They would be outnumbered if a second wave came.

Riley drew his team close. "Okay, men, we have two options. We dig in here and try to hold off another attack, or we surprise them while they're regrouping."

"Tell ya what, Pach," said Kim "Tommy" Li, a man with an itchy trigger finger and way too many tattoos, "if there's gonna be target practice going on here, I'd rather be the shooter than the bull's-eye."

"Okay, then, here's how it's going to work. Murphy and Li, I want you to belly out to those boulders twenty meters north to meet their feint. Logan, you and Ross remount the Mark on the Humvee and circle it around east; then everyone open up with everything and blow the snot out of these desert rats. Got it?"

An excited mixture of "Yes, sir" and "Yeah, boy" was heard from the men.

"We've got five of our guys down, with at least one probably out - that's unacceptable. Let's make 'em pay." Riley locked eyes with each member of his team and tried to draw from them the same courage he was attempting to instill. "Ready . . . go, go, go!!"

A point-point-counterpoint

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THE WORLD SERIES?

Well, everything. But also, the crisp October air in New York! And Boston! And WEATHER OR NOT, here comes the Boston Red Sox and their awesome seriously great pitcher Josh Beckett in game one Wednesday night!

I love the Rockies and what they've done, but bow to the American League juggernaut! MANNY IS ALWAYS BEING MANNY, and David Ortiz is still the clutchest baseball player ever and Jason Varitek is the catcher (which is why he wears that "C" on his jersey) but he's also the TEAM CAPTAIN! He's like Derek Jeter, except whiter and a catcher. But then there's Beckett who is what my black friend Will Smith would call a BAD, BAD MAN! He's like The Nasty Boys, except just one Nasty Boy. I wouldn't mess with Becks.

Did you see that X-girlfriend of his sing the National Anthem in Cleveland? She's smoking! That was the turning point of the ALCS.

Boston is just better in every facet of the game. They have more Manny, more hitting, more fielding, more baserunning, more Rookie of the Year candidates, more MVP candidates, more Cy Young candidates and a better manager. Terry Francona! He's like the architect from the Matrix. HE BUILT THIS CITY ON ROCK AND ROLL.

Plus, Boston has the tradition. They made the World Series a couple years ago and the Rockies have not. It's all about track record once you get to this point.


What is this deal with Burt taking a stance on something? I don't even know what to do with this.

What about the Rockies winning 21 of 22 games? What about Troy Tulowitzki's defense, which is tighter than Burt's mother on her wedding night? What about Matt Holliday, who's as good of a hitter as anyone on the Sox? What about the Boston outfielders trying to cover that gigantic pasture at Coors Field?

What about David Ortiz trying to play first base in the thin air, without the aid of an oxygen tank?

What about the Rockies really loving Jesus?


I don't know who loves Jesus more, but I do know that JOHNNY DAMON is Jesus and plays in the Boston outfield. Or used to. Manny is so laid back and awesome, and it's not the end of the world if he loses, but he's TOTALLY going to step up his game in the World Series! Did I mention which team has Josh Beckett and JONATHAN PAPELBON. What kind of dance will he come up with when they win the Series? It's going to be a RIOT!

But Marv has me thinking. The Rockies are pretty sweet too, with Matt Holliday (MVPMVPMVPMVP) leading the charge and the Canadian Dudley Do-Right JEFF FRANCIS with the left arm of God! Dudley Do-Right was that Canadian park ranger, right? The play in the thin air and are going to have lots of fans cheering in the TEN INCHES OF SNOW. Manny will be making snow angels and Troy Tulowitzki is going to totally hit liners down the line that just stop in the snow! It's going to be madness! Like Hurricane Katrina with snow!

I don't get it about my mom. Tight defense? Also, my mom was never married. ZING.

I can't decide who's going to win? THE RED SOX? THE ROCKIES? So many choices! TODD HELTON.

THERE'S ONLY ONE ROCKTOBER!


You know, Dane Cook is a cultural phenomenon that I don't understand. Apparently, he's a stand-up comedian, and pretty much all of those suck (except for David Cross, who I love like a son. In fact, he might be my son. There are lots of those floating around, and we do share quite a few common traits).

I did some research, and here are some choice Dane Cook quotes:

"One brother, five sisters ... dude, I'd have to wear a tampon just to fit in."

"I invite her back to my apartment, or as I call it, the 'Death Star.' I'm still working on it, it's not completely operational."

"You're with someone for like two weeks in and you're like, 'No way. I can't stand this person. I'll stay around for five or six years and we can end this thing violently. I got time."

"I was literally cheated on. I woke up and they were on top of me."

What the hell is this? Why would he feel the need to fit in with his sisters? The Death Star? And the last one is the worst play on words since that asshole who sent in ten puns to his newspaper, hoped to win, but no pun in ten did.

God damn it. God damn Dane Cook for bringing this up.

And he's not even one of those comedians where you need to hear his delivery for the jokes to really have an effect. In fact, I think that makes him worse. All he does is shout at me and writhe around on stage like an epileptic, functionally-retarded Joe Cocker with a tight-fitting graphic T-shirt. And now that he's on TV all the time, all he's doing now is shouting at me that there's only one October. Well, no shit. There's also only one March, and one June, and one Boxing Day (Canada).

Dane Cook sucks.

Also, since Glowing Green Burt switched his allegiances to the Rockies, they got their ass handed to them, 13-1, in Game 1.

What say you now, Burt?


DUSTIN PEDROIA! He's Eckstein with hair! RED SOX!

Damn this garbage to hell

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Time is running out. And it's Roger Goodell's fault.

As if cracking down on players' drunken behavior wasn't enough (I remember when drinking and performing assorted criminal acts in public made you a man, not a felon), you now have to tinker with the most sacred and holy of sports institutions: the NFL draft. Go to hell.

The sacred day in April used to be among my most cherished. Though the frost still glistened on the special grass in my garden, the sun would be shining and the threat of summer would be right around the corner. I would turn on my television at precisely 11:55 EST, then eagerly consume morsels of misinformation spouted by a thinner and handsomer Chris Berman. I remember when there was no loud black man interfering with my television reception. Instead, there was that greasy-haired goblin who reminded me of that nerd from The Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles. Mel Kiper.

As each player's name was called, I would meticulously write the name, position, school, team, height, weight, physical makeup, personality type, Wunderlich score, 40 time, combine rating, ACT score, sexual orientation (I think we know which way YOU leaned, Steve Emtman) and hair color in my notebook. I would smile as the parents hugged their young man and he strolled (in the case of offensive linemen, waddle) to the podium. Then, I would gloriously nap.

I would dream of Farrah Fawcett. Maybe Susan Sarandon. Definitely Bette Midler.

Fifteen minutes later, another name would grace my television screen, and I would be awake and alert. Then, another nap. Sometimes, I would go fishing between picks, and sometimes I would eat lunch in the backyard with the kids. But I never missed a damn selection, not once. It was the Harvey McGuffin draft day.

And damn you, Goodfornothing, look what you've done to my day! Subtracted a round from Saturday? Shrunk the selection times between picks for both the first and second round? Excuse you? How dare you mess with the most important televised event of the sports calendar. I remember when the NFL Draft was unbelievably not on television, and do you know what that was like? It was waking up each morning, only to realize that today was likely to be worse than yesterday. It was like starting each day without a shot of Jack and scrambled eggs. It was like the 1960s.

Not only will I be forced to stay awake for the whole damn thing, but the draft will be over sooner. What happened to the lust for suspense, drama and Mel Kiper? Will I lose my priceless moments of player video footage, some recorded on hand-held video cameras, with those entertaining ESPN effects to highlight the newest NFL player? Will Chris Mortensen be allowed to speak? I swear to God, Goodell, if you take Mort from my living room, I'll get violent.

Time is a horrible thing to waste. I would know, because mine is running out. I'm going to die, Goodell, which is obviously what you want. I now have fewer moments of the NFL draft and fewer naps in between picks. How am I supposed to fill my damn time on Harvey McGuffin draft day? I miss Faye Vincent.

Five Things I'm Feeling

By Curtis Woodsworth
Fabulous

I’m a little nervous with my return to the re-vamped Flotsam. Marv called me on my cell phone while I was out shopping, and told me, "The purple-spotted crow flies into the pane-glass window at midnight tomorrow." I didn’t know what that meant, but it reminded that this site used to exist, so I checked it out and saw things were back up and running. Oh, the good times we had together! I’ve decided to hop back on board with my predictions and recommendations of athletes to keep an eye on.

With that, I present the return of "Five Things That I’m Feeling." I hope you enjoy! Stay saucy, ponies!

1. I know it’s just been played to pieces, but I have to throw in my two cents on Tom Brady. What a magical, magical season this muffin is having. If you look up "stud" in the dictionary, you will likely see a picture of a button-like, ornamental object. But this is pointless -- it should be Thomas' countenance! I spent this past Sunday curled on the couch with Truffles, my favorite Birman cat, and watched Thomas dismantle the poor, defenseless Dolphins. I was transfixed by his stunning accuracy and broad shoulders, pausing my transfixation only briefly to shed a tear for the loss of Ronnie Brown’s bubble butt from my fantasy dream team. If I could be any man, I would choose to be Elton John. But Tom Brady would be next in line.

2. Breakout special this year in the NBA is one of my favorite players, second-year swingman Rudy Gay. He’s super lithe and rangy, and with some polishing, he could really explode. Because kiddies, he’s long, he’s strong, and he’s down to get the friction on! There's just something about Gay that really gets me going. Get down in Memphis, Rudy!

3. Many people were stunned by the collapse of the Cleveland Indians this week, but it wasn’t much of a surprise to this observer. The Red Sox have long been the most patient team in baseball at the plate, and they eventually wore down the Indians. While C.C. Sabathia and Fausto Carmona were excellent this season, they rely on getting hitters to take bad swings on tough pitches. However, the Red Sox are so patient, they were able to wait and get themselves into hitter’s counts. I think the Rockies’ staff, which has several pretty wild pitchers, is going to have a very hard time handling the disciplined Red Sox offense in the World Series.

4. With everyone talking about the Patriots’ dominance this season, you fussy little tarts have forgotten about the also-undefeated Indianapolis Colts. They’ve outscored opponents 192-94 and will be very tough to handle. While their quarterback is nothing to look at, it’s the defense that really gets me going. I’ve always like power-packed athletes, and Bob Sanders fits the bill. He’s 5 feet, 8 inches and 206 pounds of pure powerful pounding pizzazz! Thanks for representing America's heartland, Bobby! You've certainly captured the land of my heart!

5. Non-sports thought of the week: Kelly Kapoor from NBC’s "The Office" is the hands-down, best character on television. She just seems so real, you know? I can identify with her, and that’s what makes me tune in each week to see the hijinks of Michael Scott and the gang. And it’s so nice to see Pam with Jim instead of Roy. Three cheers for JAM! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!

Have a good week, friends. Chat with ya soon!

This is the story of a guy named BRADY!

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

Sometimes I lay awake at night and dream of TOM BRADY.

Seriously, I don’t know how many people have noticed, but he’s put up some INSANE numbers (26 touchdown passes in seven games) and the Patriots are going to go 16-0 because of the Michigan Magnificent Magician Marvelous, who is throwing an average of SIX TOUCHDOWNS A GAME. He’s unbelievable. Best quarterback of our generation, and he’s super, super clutch.

Can you believe he wasn’t even going to be the starter in college? That was going to be DREW HENSON (may he rest in peace), and nobody knew how fantastic Brady was going to be. But a bunch of Super Bowl wins later, a ton of regular season wins for fun, re-creating the dynastic mystique of the New England Patriots, a few supermodels bagged, and Brady is the greatest quarterback of our generation.

I HAVE HIM ON MY FANTASY TEAM AND I HAVEN’T LOST A GAME.

Randy Moss hated other people, and never played hard, but he gets on the Patriots and Tom Brady puts his Glenda the Good Witch powers on him and suddenly he’s like the best receiver of our generation. And WES WELKER, who used to be just an average white guy, is now catching like two touchdowns a game! Bad backup running backs have shouldered the load, the defense has dominated, and even the kicker has been good, all because of TOM EDWARD BRADY, JR. I’m a dude, but I’m comfortable saying that he’s handsome. WHO DOESN’T WANT TO BE (with) TOM BRADY?

I’m Tom Brady and I support this message! Just kidding. I wish I was Tom Brady, though.

The Patriots are my sleeper pick to win another Super Bowl this year, and they’re probably going to win every game by no fewer than 19 points. THAT’S AMAZING. They’re not going to sip champagne in Miami this year, so calm down, Brian Griese’s Dad. This team is legit, and a child shall lead them! A child named TOM BRADY. I have been looking at some box scores and he's even throwing touchdowns to HIMSELF. He's playing tight end AND quarterback at the same time. Nobody else in the league can do that, except maybe, maybe Brett Favre.

WHAT A YEAR IN BOSTON. First, the Red Sox totally get into the World Series in seven games, EXACTLY AS I PREDICTED, and now they’re leading the league in awesome in the NFL. What a year!

Do you know who is not awesome? Tony Romo.

Oh my GOD this is so sad

By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite

Breakups are, like, hard.

Last year, Erika Radinski was dating Tommy Clark, who's such a meathead, because he totally asked her if they could have an open relationship. I totally had to explain to Erika that he meant still go out while sleeping with other girls, most likely that hussy Charlotte Wilkins on the cheerleading squad. Her legs are, like, never closed.

Some people are together forever because it's, like, destiny. But sometimes they're together forever and it sucks really bad, like when Mina Westcott was dating Jeremy Rogan for like two years! Ugh. He smelled like musky awful cologne all the time and he was NOT that hot, and he totally loved himself. What a loser. But she looooved him, probably because his parents have like this house in the mountains and they can go skiing and stuff. Anyway, they FINALLY broke up after he made out with some FRESHMAN! It was so not meant to last.

So like, Joe Torre and George Steinbrenner? Can you totally believe that it lasted that long? TWELVE YEARS. That's like, Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman long. And I have SEEN relationships where one person starts to go crazy. Marshall Vickers got all weird like three months after he started dating Kelly Capris, and we totally found out like three months after he disappeared that he was snorting cocaine. Plus, my grandpa got all forgetful and started yelling at the walls and stuff, and grandma just stood by his side. That's love. So this thing in New York was, like, love I guess.

So George got all crazy, and Joe just sat by his side, kind of like my grandma with her knitting. It was so cute! But in the end, it's kind of like Erika and Tommy. I mean, George's offer to keep the relationship up was totally harsh. Joe did a lot for George, with all those rings that he got him and stuff. But George wanted to pay him less per year even though he makes the playoffs like every season? That's sadness :(

Joe will totally find someone else, though. That's how it always works. It's like a carousel of love -- everyone is always looking to hook up with someone, especially someone who's a catch. Hello? Like, Peter Angelos, are you listening? Like, whoever takes over in St. Louis? There is a possibility for a LOVE CONNECTION here. I'll bring the makeup.

Agatha being Manny

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Baseball is a terrifying game.

There are no clocks in this establishment, meaning two teams could theoretically play forever if defenses are unable to record the requisite outs for a game's advancement. Imagine: a game that has infinity breathing down its neck. It reminds me of the Stephen King short story "The Jaunt," in which a young human boy's mind is exposed to eternity during a routine teleportation to Mars. He subsequently claws his eyes out.

If Manny Ramirez wants to say that "It's not like it's the end of the world" that Boston could be eliminated from the playoffs at the hands of the Cleveland Indians, then I tend to agree. Time after time, Ramirez exposes himself to this game without limits, and to be relieved from that dark reality must be a great relief. Especially given that the average Red Sox game on television lasts 5 1/2 hours, you can see how America's poster child for ADHD would feel threatened by this horrid playoff business. It's not the end of the world. In fact, getting out is akin to survival.

Besides, this is Boston. This team will be back in the playoffs next year and several hundred consecutive years after, probably without even trying. As an example, notice how Manny never tries and still succeeds, similar to the bubble-gum popularity and easily consumable nature of Metallica's post-Black Album catalog. Sinners.

When Manny Ramirez speaks, I listen. After all, he's just one nose ring, some English lessons and a giant furry top hat away from being the greatest lead singer of our generation, and I'm convinced he has an ear to the world's innermost secrets. His existentialism sets him apart from his peers, those who are foolishly driven to succeed in a game that permits failure seven out of 10 times.

Also, that hair makes me hot. If your current voodoo priestess winds up outside the MLB medical benefits network, feel free to give Moonfry Associates a call, Manny. I purr.

NFL Power Rankings (?)

By Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Though I'm a grubby, old curmudgeon, I know that I have to adapt to the changing times. As I've previously stated, I miss the days when newspapers forced their readers to read in order to gain information. I know, I know. It's a crazy concept now. But people complained about reading and things changed.

And this is why Flotsam places such a great emphasis on reader feedback. We love to hear from you; we love to know what you think, feel, do with your ex-wife.

After all, caving in to the whims of readers is how journalism became the great institution it is today. Case in point: Long ago, newspaper articles were made up of words that were painstakingly glued onto a page, usually in long strips called "columns." Readers of newspapers, heralds and gazettes around America were forced to scan long blocks of text and process extensive reels of information and facts.

As American society progressed, people decided they hated this. Mounting complaints stated that discovering information about the world around them while using this method was, in fact, too cumbersome. Readers didn't have time to sit, read and process.

These readers began to stage riots. "No more text for information!" the protesters screamed. Reporters were shot dead in the streets and copy editors were forced, at gunpoint, to chop 35-inch stories about presidential elections into more accessible 7-inch breakout boxes. Statistically, the average American newspaper page made the transition from five stories per page to 16 stories, 27 breakout boxes, four multi-colored pie charts and at least one photo of a group of people holding a thing and smiling. Thanks to these reader-fueled advances, everyone from college professors to dyslexic five-year-olds can read and understand an American newspaper.

So, anyway. All of this is meant to tell you that I'm going to be occasionally writing NFL Power Rankings on this site. It's a mindless way to put out some content without actually analyzing anything or doing much work. I hope you love it to death.

I don't want to list all of the NFL teams because after so many, who cares? This week I am arbitrarily opting to list my top nine NFL teams. And that's because I don't want to give you --the dirty, ADD-riddled readers -- the satisfaction of getting a full top-10 list.

1. New England (6-0) How good are the Patriots? Oh, they're good all right.

What? Were you expecting more than that? These are power rankings!

2. Indianapolis (5-0) As good as the Pats' offense has been, Indy is very quietly playing great football. And for all the talk about how ugly Peyton Manning is, I don't understand why people think Tom Brady is so much more attractive. Racism, I expect.

3. Pittsburgh (4-1) They seem to be more relaxed now that they don't have to look at Bill Cowher's chin anymore. That thing would have me all riled up, too. And although few are talking about it, their defense looks like the best in the NFL.

4. Jacksonville (4-1) Their defensive line is filled with bulemics. That was supposed to say behemoths, but I wasn't paying attention. And now my backspace key doesn't work.

5. Dallas (5-1) I put them here just so I can see how far I make them fall during the season. I still think Tony Romo sucks and I still think their defense is a sieve.

6. Tampa Bay (4-2) Their defense appears to be back, and Ike Hilliard is relevant again! Also, Jeff Garcia is my favorite quarterback because he's old and scrappy and overachieving and I'm a sportswriter!

7. Baltimore (4-2) I'd move them up about 18 spots if Steve McNair weren't their quarterback.

8. Green Bay (5-1) I'm not buying it. I think this is the season Brett Favre gets something severely broken and we finally have to watch Aaron Rodgers, who has been sitting and waiting patiently for three seasons for the 49ers to draft him.

9. Tennessee (3-2) All Vince Young does is win. More accurately, all he does is win while sucking a lot, but not quite sucking bad enough to screw up the good play of his defense and great scheming by his coaching staff.

This was lots of fun. No one got hurt, and no one had to learn anything. I hope you're happy.

What is this? Barney and friends?

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Who wears purple to the prom?

If the answer is "me," then you're probably a hippy or a huffer. Because while the Colorado Rockies might be all new wave with that fashion statement they make, it upsets me that they have disrupted baseball's natural balance by reaching the World Series. This 21 wins in 22 tries is hurting the game I love so much.

At least when they had Larry Walker, they were paying stoic homage to our Canadian forefathers. Now, their Canadian bacon's name is Francis. I remember when if your name was Francis, you were whipped to death by towels in the boys locker room. These Rockies also have some punk named Ubaldo, a 27-year-old outfielder who is also a Baldo, a catcher named after your feet, and a Polack playing shortstop. Inconceivable.

When I was a boy, there were no Rockies. Or Diamondbacks for that matter. There were no Marlins and their damn two championships or any teams named after a damn state. Pick a hometown, hobos. You can't fool me with your all-encompassing socialism.

Where are the Mets? Or the Phillies or Dodgers or Giants? Hell, I'd even take the Cubs if it meant restoring a little order to the world. The fact is, baseball has become a game where any yahoo can walk into the bar and steal the best looking girl in the room. I remember when you had to earn your place at the bar, drinking in the back while clutching your vodka-gin-whiskey tonic, waiting for a spot to open up. You had to sit in that back room long and hard before anyone invited you to belly up with the big boys.

Times have changed. A team like the Rockies, who have never won a playoff series before this year and weren't even going to get an invite to the party until they went and won every single game over the course of a month, can just barnstorm its way to the World Series. With their purple vests and Coors-plus-elevation alcoholism and lousy bullpen. Legends like Mike Schmidt and Sandy Koufax must be rolling over in their graves. Expansion teams are supposed to provide easy wins for the historical mainstays of baseball, not just rush on through to the biggest party this side of Woodstock in 1972.

Freddy's Fantasy Flotsam

Freddy Baird
Fantasy Expert

Hell yes. What a weekend in fantasy sports. Adrian "All Day" Peterson went off against the Bears; Maurice Jones-Drew rose from the dead; Tom Brady continued his march toward Canton, and surely Bridget Moynahan noticed that. She must be angrier than Lindsay Lohan after finding out all of her crack is gone. Either way, the Miami Dolphins continue to look uglier than Spencer Pratt's goatee, except for Ronnie Brown, who is steadier than Lindsay Lohan's hands when she's not on crack.

With that said, on to the e-mails!

I'm torn on a trade offer I received. Another owner has offered me Rudi Johnson and Steve Smith for Tomlinson. I'm thin at wide receiver and could use the help there. What do you think?
- Dave, Littleton, Colo.

Are you serious? You're thinking about taking that offer? What I would do is drive to that other owner's house and spray him with Britney Spears' urine. Right in his stupid trade-mongering face. If someone offered me a deal like that, I'd never speak to him again, and I might even kill his dog.

Do you have an advice on waiver pickups for Week 7? I'm in trouble because I have several guys who will all be on bye in the same week.
Rick, Albany, New York.

Look, this is your own damn fault. The number six rule of fantasy drafting is to pay attention to bye weeks. If you told someone that you came away from draft day with Carson Palmer, Adrian Peterson, Brian Westbrook and Chad Johnson, they'd probably be impressed. I wouldn't. I'd immediately know that all four of those guys had byes in Week 5. And you probably lost that week, didn't you? I'm not going to answer this question, and I hope your league-mates talked some serious smack about this issue on the league message board.

Is Dwayne Bowe for real? He's made some great grabs and looks like he's going to have an impact from here on out.
- Larry, Mesa, Ariz.

Elementary. Of course he's for real. I told one of my friends in the preseason that Dwayne Bowe would have a better year than Calvin Johnson. He looked at me like I was crazier than Lindsay Lohan on a crack binge. But who's crazy now? Not me. I own Bowe in 22 of my 26 leagues, and he's been like manna from H-E-A-V-E-N.

Any advice on buy-low targets for the rest of the year? I'm sitting at 3-3 right now, so this would be a good time to make a move for me. I'm thinking about making an offer for Torry Holt because he's struggled lately.
- Melissa, San Diego, Calif.

Whoa whoa whoa. A chick who plays fantasy football? Who lives in San Diego? Be still my Brandon Marshall-loving heart. If you ever need a league to get into, you just drop me a line. I would love to show you the ways. And I'm sure you'd love to have me show you, with my hands that have compiled 11 industry league titles since 1998. Mmmm. Also, buy low on Vince Young.

Toothpicks and mustangs, dude

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Daddy never lets me drive the car anymore.

One time, because I was really good and promised not to tell mommy about his special time with the Lady Magazines, daddy let me drive the car back out of the driveway. I really like Little Dale Jr. and wanted to be just like him, so I wanted to try driving a real car. Vrooooom!

It's like playing the Cruising USA game at the bowling alley when Daddy gives me quarters and tells me to amuse myself while he does bowling. Except it's real. I rolled really fast down the driveway and I couldn't really see over my seat while I was looking backwards, so I kind of ran over Mr. and Mrs. Williams' mailbox. And also, their lawn. And their kitty.

So daddy doesn't want me to drive the car anymore, even though I said I would do better next time. It's not fair! The Cincinnati Reds said it was okay if Dusty Baker drove their car for the next three years, but he already made lots of mistakes. Why is he so special? Why does he get to try again?

In Chicago, Dusty had two beautiful Mustangs named Mark Prior and Kerry Wood. He broke them. He used them too much without any oil changes in between, and smoke started coming out of their ears. They don't work anymore, and Chicago is very mad at Dusty. Like Daddy, except without the bald head. Daddy says Mark Prior is missing his pee-pee.

Dusty seems silly. He was a good manager sometimes, but then he lost lots of games, mostly because he broke his two best players and didn't use his equipment properly. And also, because he let his little boy go near the home plate when a runner was coming home. It would be so neats if I got a chance to run around the home plate! Mrs. Williams said I wasn't allowed in her home ever again. She smells like dead things.

So if Dusty gets a chance to play with some new cars -- they are called Aaron Harang and Homer Bailey -- then why can't I try driving the car again? I promise to be better!

Ladies, rejoice

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Like the late, great Phoenix, I have risen from my own sexy, fiery ashes to bring you the best of DeJuan Charles Xavier C3P0, returning to Flotsam after a damn long hiatus. Man, it gets hella boring when there ain’t no writing. You think I have a day job, bitches? Dog, I tried to do the crossing guard thing, and I ain’t cut out for that shit. Kids make me feel like there spiders be trying to crawl out of my eyes. I have to wear sunglasses all the time.

But no more sitting around playing solitary Uno, my children, because DeJuan is back. Beardy Marv called me late last night to break the big news, and even though that cat does a lot more heavy breathing than he does talking, I was jumping for joy. Truth is, DeJuan is the flyest writer that hobo has. Investigative journalism and shit. I’m like the prince of that stuff. I am even wearing a crown to celebrate. It is sparkly and made with paper mache. That shit is hard to find.

But here’s the bad news, y’all … I don’t know shit about what’s going on in sports. I mean, I tried to keep up after Flotsam went in the shitter back in the day, hoping Marv would just man up and come out of that coma. But dog, that was a lot of paying attention for no real reason. So I cashed out. And this week was especially bad, cuz it was network premiere week. The debut of Bionic Woman, y’all! I cannot make that shit up. That was hella tight. Already on my TiVo for the rest of the season.

And dude, I know how to use Googles, and there ain’t nothing going on in sports. The Yankees and the Red Sox made the playoffs for like the seventh year in a row, my twin sister Steven Jackson is passed out on a couch somewhere, and the NHL is finally underway after all that lockout shit. And I thought Flotsam took forever to get back in the flow.

Speak to me, my puppies. Tell me what you want DeJuan to rap at you about, and I will make it the fliyest commentary you have ever endured. I’m the prince of that shit, you know. Send the C3P0 where your heart desires. You want it!

The World Series of awesome

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

HOLY FREAKING CHUTES AND LADDERS, BATMAN! The Yankees are out after ONE ROUND of the playoffs, which means George Steinbrenner is totally going to fire Joe Torre and hire Joe Girardi or Bobby Valentine or Don Zimmer to run the team! Viva la Revolution! It's going to be crazy! I can't even remember the last time the Yankees were out after one round, it has to be like 10 years since that last happened! It's hard to imagine the Yankees not in the World Series, but someone still has to win, so without further ado, here's Burt's WORLD SERIES PREVIEW. I'm a one-man Preview Channel!

With the Yankees gone, predicting a World Series winner is HARD, except it's definitely the Boston Red Sox. MANNY BEING MANNY! Did you see him hit that super A-Bomb past the Coke bottles against K-Bombed? That was AMAZING. He totally let that ball get by him in the outfield earlier in the game, knowing he was going to hit that big home run. He's dramatic! And with Big Papi hitting game-winning home runs like once every other game, and incredible ace Curt Schilling still pitching like a Cy Young candidate, it's hard to imagine the Red Sox ever losing a game, especially to Cleveland, which doesn't really have that great of a team, if you ask me. They're from Cleveland, don't they always choke? But the Red Sox have bad boy superfly Josh Beckett, closer Jon Papelbon and the JAPANESE MACHINE Dice-K. That K stands for STRIKEOUT. I never understood why that's the letter they use to abbreviate, but that's HOW IT IS, and Dice-K is gonna get you to swing and miss! I can't wait.

I didn't even mention Dustin Pedroia, who is probably the best rookie middle infielder in the last 10 years! Or Hideki Okajima, who is probably the best rookie middle reliever in the last 10 years! The Red Sox have all the middles covered! They're middle men! And they're going to beat Cleveland quickly and easily. Prediction: Red Sox in seven.

In the National League, the Rockies are winning EVERY SINGLE GAME, and that's because of (MVPMVPMVP) Matt Holliday, who is going to be MVP. They also have Todd Helton and Troy Tulowitzki, who is going to be in a tough race with Pedroia for rookie of the year. Plus, they hit tons and tons of home runs becuase they play in Coors Field, and they have JAPANESE MACHINE Kaz Matsui hitting triples and stuff. HE'S THE KAZMANIAN DEVIL!

The Diamondbacks are exciting because they have former World Series MVP Livan Hernandez (and his name is Livan! and he shall be a good man! Taylor Hicks sang that song on Idol -- I picked Taylor to win that thing from the start) and Brandon Webb, who had a scoreless innings streak that lasted a bunch of innings earlier this year. They should call him Spider Man because his last name is Webb. SPIDER SENSES ON, STRIKE THREE CALLED.

This series has a lot of color, and not just because the team colors are purple and maroon! I like the Diamondbacks, probably in five games. Or the Rockies in five games. It's definitely not going to six!

Look at us, all shiny and new

Throughout my tenure in life, I have learned a lot of things. I've learned algebra I'll never use; I've learned not to freeze lettuce; I've learned that mustard on sandwiches is always disappointing. I've learned that you should work like you don't need the money. You should love like you've never been hurt. You should dance like no one's watching. You should shit like no one is sitting in that stall next to you.

I've learned these things, and I'm better for it. I've learned that you should chase your dreams, no matter the odds against you.

I'm getting older, you know. There isn't the same spring in my step, or my pants. My time here on this Earth may be waning. I haven't taken very good care of myself in this life -- too many ill-fated decisions in my teens, 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s and 60s have done a lot to take a toll on my body. My hair is falling out. My beard grows more gray by the day. I get a lot of nosebleeds sometimes.

So I've decided to go for it, one last time. There have been many failed ventures in my life. My startup hummus company, my Formula 1 racing team and Capital Funding Management Decisions Integrated Strategy Incorporated folded like Rex Grossman under a mediocre pass rush.

Ahh, yes. A lame, topical sports reference. That, folks, is why we're here. This is my last gasp. One last chance to make it big. I've rounded up some of my closest friends, along with a few people I can't stand (Hi, Burt), and we'll bring you sports information and opinions. Again. From the ashes, we rise. We stand. We deliver. Much like Tom Brady with four full seconds of pocket protection.

Christ, I'm rusty. I sound like Woody Paige.

Regardless. We're back. Sit down, grab a drink. Stick around a while while we shake off the rust. It's Flotsam, Part II. And we'll still tell you what to think.