There are no real men anymore

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Back when I was a whippersnapper in the projects, we finished what we started.

There were ups and downs at the McGuffin household. Daddy ran away. Daddy came back. Daddy ran away again. Various household accidents. A bad case of bugs from Sally Mabry next door. She was a fine piece of pie if you didn't mind the tainted filling.

But no matter the obstacle, we followed through. That's what you did as a man. You picked up the pieces and soldiered forward. You choked back the tears and put aside the empty darkness closing in and took that 21st shot of Jack Daniels because dammit, it was your 21st birthday. And you were a man.

But we don't live in that age anymore. Now, all it takes is something half-shiny to distract a man from his course. Bobby Petrino didn't even get through a damn season of football before bolting for something better, something safer, something with fewer obstacles. He went to a place where the old coach used to be named "Nutt," because hell, that's a pretty easy act to follow.

He abruptly leaves the Atlanta Falcons high and dry, as if they needed someone else shitting all over their shitty, shitty sheets. What do you really even do as head coach in the NFL? Everyone knows how to play the damn game, and they all prance around with women and illicit drugs and dog-killing rings anyway and there's nothing you can do about it. So really, you just sit back and collect your check until you get fired. But no matter what, you fulfill your duties until they change the locks on the practice facility. Why would you want to escape that American dream for something lower on the totem pole?

I'll tell you why, if you just listen to me, dammit. It's because Bobby Petrino is a pansy. Pansy Bobby.

Sure, your quarterback killed a bunch of pit bulls and got sent to prison for a couple years. Back in my day, killing an animal was not a crime, but a privilege, especially if it was a housecat. All Michael Vick has to do is get out on good behavior in a few damn months and he'll be back throwing touchdowns and passing along his own sexual burnings to honeys in the greater Atlanta region.

Sure, your team sucks. Substantially. Your current quarterback was an insurance salesman last year, you have a tight end named after a microscopic plant, you have no up and coming talent and you play in the Superdome. Or some building that looks like the Superdome. But so what? You can't quit now, Pansy Bobby. You just got here.

I'm canceling my Atlanta Falcons season tickets, dammit. Where are my goddamned pills?