The Strahan Legacy: EXPOSED?

By Donald Winchester
Private Eye

The stench of a rat has lingered over Michael Strahan's career for seven years now, and it's up to me -- Donald Winchester, Private Eye -- to reveal the truth about the toothless wonder. See, back in 2001, Strahan was approaching the single-season sack record when fellow retiree Brett Favre laid down -- laid down like France in an international conflict -- and Strahan fell on top of him like a gentle lover. It was this accomplishment that made Strahan a celebrity.

As Strahan retires, it seems everyone remembers that fateful moment, but everyone also wonders whether or not Favre and his merry offensive linemen allowed it to happen. I had an itch to know the truth -- like the itch one might experience after a night in a Mississippi whore house -- and took it upon myself to dig up the details.

For no man's legacy is complete until Donald Winchester, Private Eye, says so. The facts are these:

In the final game of the season, Strahan needed one more sack for 22.5, a mark that would pass Mark Gastineau on the all-time list. Late in the game, Favre's little tumble allowed No. 92 to get the credit, and history was made. History is great and all if you like the Aztecs and Revolutionary War. But this conspiracy was on par with the government's experiments in Roswell, and everyone knew it, especially me.

How suspicious, I think, that the two greats are retiring in the same year. Perhaps Strahan knew Favre would tell his side of the story in a tell-all novella, possibly called "Vicodin, Interceptions and My Night in Bed with Michael Strahan -- Three Things I'm Not Proud Of." I ventured to Kiln, Miss. to find out the truth.

I traced Favre to a swampy townhouse in the rural sticks. It was muddy -- muddier than the set of that new show "Wipeout" -- and smelled like grits and jumbalaya. I could see Favre on the porch, sitting in a rocking chair with his shotgun, waiting for stray cats to scurry by. One unlucky tom whom I shall name Whiskers came to survey the scene, and Favre shot him dead -- deader than a tomato-eating McDonald's patron. I'd have to be delicate with this one, for Brett Favre's aim was stupendous and violent.

I came forward with my hands raised and begged for mercy, that I was here on friendly business. He surveyed me and then asked if I was a member of the media, never letting go of his shotgun. He was mistrustful -- like a child who's been promised three candy bars by daddy if he would just come down off the roof and brush his teeth. I told him I was no pressman. I merely had one question, one question that could change the world.

Did you do it? I asked. Did you let Michael Strahan have his day, without playing the game in good faith? He gave a dramatic pause -- John Wayne at the OK Corral dramatic -- and thought about the question for a bit. He smiled wryly -- that freaky Ben Linus in "Lost" wryly -- and I could see the memories of that day come flooding back like a Biblical flood.

No, he said softly, but then he winked once, twice, wrinkled his brow and gave the "OK" sign with his left hand. Nope, that was totally legitimate, he said.

He had a drawl -- Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias drawl -- and I couldn't be sure if I heard him correctly. For he had refuted the plain truth, but had done so with a series of mysterious hand gestures. I couldn't be sure his true intent. I was confused. Confused like a peace-spewing hippy at Altamont.

I asked him again. "There are facts, sir. Visual facts. It doesn't look good for you, see. I ask again, did you lay down like a lamb for the slaughter?"

He looked at me with puzzled eyes, and then repeated "Nope, that was perfectly legit." He strained his voice on perfectly, drawing it out in a tone that sounded like sarcasm. But I couldn't be sure. I needed fact, not conjecture. I shook my head and demanded the truth, screaming that the world needed to know before Michael Strahan walked off into the sunset with his legend intact. I was desperate -- Tom Cruise after the split with Nicole Kidman desperate.

One last time, he reiterated that he was innocent, and did so while winking six times and nudging his head in a series of directions. It wasn't enough. I told him I was on to him, and I would tell the world my findings. It was then that he pointed his shotgun at me and told me to get off his land. He was serious -- the bad guy in No Country For Old Men serious -- and I retreated like a girl scout running from a grizzly.

The question remains, and the Strahan legacy shall be tainted until I get the answer I require. But the truth is out there, just waiting for Donald Winchester, Private Eye.

Undercover and between the sheets

By Donald Winchester
Private Eye

It's been a crazy few weeks -- Al Davis' birthday party-crazy -- since I went undercover again. See, life is that way when you choose the path I've chosen, and all I can do is soldier on. Poor Cheryl thinks I'm on a business trip to the East Coast, and I even hired a kid to shout something about clam chowdah in the background every time I call my lovely wife. His accent is thick -- thick as chowdah -- and I'm pretty sure Cheryl doesn't suspect.

These are the things that have to be done when you're Donald Winchester, Private Eye.

It wasn't so long ago that I was in Mexico, following around the great Tony Romeo on assignment from the greater Jerry Jones. The plot has gotten more complicated -- the rules to Magic: The Gathering-complicated -- since then. For now I am tracking the greatest celebrity on the face of the planet, Thomas Edward Patrick Brady. They call him Mr. Perfect. The facts are these:

Ever since the Patriots sealed their ticket to the Super Bowl, becoming the first 18-0 team ever to walk the earth, the paparazzi has been on Brady like huffing addicts to cans of Glade. To distract them, the clever Brady -- Dennis Hopper in "Speed" clever -- took a stroll down the block with a walking boot and has missed the first few team practices. People think he's hurt. But I know better. A man who called himself Willy B came into my office and told me to follow Mr. Perfect, to discover the truth behind his sudden disappearance. Willy B hid behind a hoodie and looked ominous -- Ghost of Christmas Future-ominous -- and I feared what would happen if I did not comply.

I've traced Mr. Perfect to his old stomping grounds in San Mateo, California, and I found him sight-seeing with a lovely woman. From afar, I fully expected it to be his faux-French fox, Gisele. She's hot -- chicken broaster-hot -- and I wouldn't have blamed Mr. Perfect for taking a field trip with his mademoiselle. But then, I got closer.

You see, Mr. Perfect is caught in a web of lies and deceit. For his new arm candy is none other than the siren Jessica Simpson, the same temptress who ruined Tony Romeo's aim for success. After following the happy couple to a bistro, I saw them temporarily part ways, as he went to buy her a gift at a jewelry store and she perused an adjacent shop, looking for new shoes. Who do you think I discovered in that same shoe shop with the evil-seeking Simpson? I think you know. But let me tell you.

His face was still red from last weekend's game in Green Bay -- Clifford the Dog-red -- and he still wore that colorful hat. Fit right in with the San Francisco locals. It was Tom Coughlin, of course, Simpson's co-conspirator. There was foul play afoot, and Donald Winchester had seen it all before.

I saw them cavort and share a laugh, and then Coughlin returned to the shadows and Simpson returned to Mr. Perfect. He gave her a necklace and she squealed with delight -- Ron Hunter after IUPUI made the NCAA tournament delight -- but I knew it was all for show. The fix was in.

I was about to radio in my findings to my new employer -- the dark and mysterious Willy B -- but I was apprehended by Michael Strahan and Osi Umenyora. They're terrifying -- Tobin Bell in the Saw series-terrifying -- and I was thrown into the back of a van, never to be seen again.

And so I'm locked in a room somewhere on the West Coast, hoping this message reaches Willy B in time. Someday, Donald Winchester, Private Eye, will be free to tell his story, but when? And how? Will it be too late?

Scandal for the ages: Romo throws game for Simpson

By Donald Winchester
Private Eye

See, it was a snowy day – blizzard-snowy – because I remember calling my wife Cheryl to tell her I would have to spend the night in my office on the plush leather couch. Poor Cheryl. She’s a dear, and she worries about me. But I can take care of myself. I’ve been in some really sticky situations before – saltwater taffy-sticky – and I’ve never met my match. I’m Donald Winchester, Private Eye, and this is my story.

He came in through the door with a trenchcoat and his collar up. I couldn’t see his face – the room was far too dim for that – but I could tell by his posture that he was an older fella. Sixty, maybe seventy. Haggard. Worn down. Undead, maybe. I don’t like the undead, but something about this guy meant business – Rockefeller or Carnegie-type business – and I wanted to hear what the man had to say.

As he came closer, I knew I had met him before. Was it in the war, encamped in some barracks on the edge of civilization? Was it in the academy, or maybe some dusty bar in the dirty south, when I briefly checked “alligator farmer” next to my name on the annual tax return? I didn’t know at first, but when he shook my hand, it clicked into place.

It was Jerry Jones. The owner of the Dallas Cowboys. America’s Team. Lonestar Legends. How ‘bout them Cowboys?

But I didn’t ask about that. No sir. That would be weird – a 22-year old getting crazy for Hannah Montana-weird – and I had to keep it cool. I asked him straightforwardly and simply, not too eagerly but not with dismissal, “What can I do for you?”

He had a problem, see, and it was big – woolly mammoth-big. His quarterback, the man they called Tony Romeo, had run amok in Mexico, and he needed someone to go down there and make sure things didn’t get out of hand. He would pay me a handsome sum – Tom Brady-handsome – if I left that next day and headed for the border, where I would use my daring wit and broken Spanish to track down the Romeo and that pop-star tramp he was sight-seeing with.

I was honored – Mira Sorvino at the Academy Awards honored – that Jones had sought me out. I told him I could do what he asked. I was on the next plane to Los Cabos, dressed inconspicuously as an American tourist named DeShawn Martinez. Hawaiian shirt. Cool shades. Straw hat. English-Spanish dictionary. Penchant for flirty conversation.

I met a woman, her name was Rosalia, and she was beautiful. I took her back to my room and casually asked for information, all while seducing her. Cheryl would understand. It’s part of the job. She told me she had heard of a resort where the Romeo and his pop queen could be found. I mixed Rosalia a drink, a special concoction of rum, cola and tranquilizer. Rosalia was out cold – Amy Winehouse at a gin joint out cold – and I immediately opened up the phone book to track down the resort she had named.

Within days, I had spotted the Romeo. He was by the pool, with his lady nearby, and some body guards. One of them was named Marc Colombo. A hilarious pseudonym. I was tickled – Tickle-Me-Elmo-tickled – and maybe that’s why I lost focus.

I planted my cameras and audio equipment in Tony Romeo’s hotel room, and I heard and saw everything. I can’t give you all the details, folks, but the facts are these: there was some kissing, some champagne, and her saying he needed to wait for marriage before going any further. There was disappointment, a shrill rendition of “Irresistible,” and then, something else.

I heard her say she was working on a new album, and she would be leaving the Sunday after Dallas’ big game with New York. Headed for Europe, where she would be recording for weeks. If Tony was there for her on that last Sunday, she would bend the rules, lost in the passion of going-away rapture.

I needed some time to ponder the ramifications. I’m a smart man – not Albert Einstein smart, but maybe Robert Oppenheimer smart – and it all came together pretty quickly for me. Jessica’s special day was the same day as the NFC Championship game. And if Tony was going to be available that day … well, that meant he wouldn’t be playing that day, didn’t it? That meant the Cowboys had to lose to the Giants. But Romeo, the golden boy -- as golden as his temptress' locks -- would never intentionally do such a thing, would he?

Then, I spied Ms. Simpson leaving her resort room. She headed out near the floating pool bar. There, she met a man whose head was covered with a colorful hat. Real colorful, Richard Simmons colorful. Using my binoculars, I looked closer and saw that she was canoodling with Tom Coughlin, coach of the New York Giants. I heard some muffled words about how Romeo was willing to go along with "the plan."

I felt a knot in my stomach, and I reached for my cell phone to alert Jerry Jones to the plot. Mr. Moneybags would want to hear about the sabotage afoot, and what Romeo was about to do for this busty little tart with the pearly white teeth, and the old fuddy-duddy who looks bewildered after every official's ruling. He would be angry. Very angry. Maximus, as portrayed by Russell Crowe in "Gladiator" after they killed his wife and son-angry.

That's when I felt strong hands grab my shoulders. Romeo had sent his henchmen – Marc Colombo and Jason Witten. They hauled me away off the property.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up in my office, bruised, bloodied and broken. How could you do this to America's team, you blond harlot? I had failed you, Jerry Jones. I’m sorry. But Donald Winchester, Private Eye, will rise again. The Cowboys, however, are done. T-bone steak at Fred’s Bar and Grill-done.

Ashlee Simpson-done.