I wish my senses were back at full strength, but then I remember something the late Roger Ebert wrote when the ravages of cancer had permanently robbed him of the ability to eat and drink :

I was reading Cormac McCarthy ’s Suttree, and there’s a passage where the hero, lazing on his river boat on a hot summer day, pulls up a string from the water with a bottle of orange soda attached to it and drinks.

This is the part where I work in a mention of the NFL Draft, because this is ostensibly a column about football, and tonight you will be introduced to a group of gentlemen about to enter, hopefully, the prime of both their physical abilities AND their earning potential.

Then Michael Irvin will stab someone with scissors on the set and I’ll go right back to George Stephanopoulos asking Roger Goodell how important it is for the NFL to defend American values.

So while I can usually trust the Cardinals to loudly fuck up, somehow they’re gonna bore the world, keep the pick, and just take Nick Bosa instead, so that he can finally live among his brethren out in the desert wastelands.

Of course the Steelers would run Antonio Brown and Le’Veon Bell out of town on a rail, and then turn around and give Big Ben—a dude who mulls retirement every other week and openly slags his own teammates—a bazillion-dollar golden parachute.