"Ah ha!" shouted I, at my television screen on Saturday night, after J.J. McCarthy threw his third interception of the game.
Raising a gnarled finger high into the air, I triumphantly bellowed "Vindication! This fellow is indeed poor exemplar of a football quarter-back, as I have been saying for many a fortnight. Witness his sallow complexion, his weak mandible, his imbalanced humors! McCarthy's earlier fraudulent performances against the dregs of collegiate football were shams and flimflam, built on a foundation of twigs and chicken wire. Now the continent entire shall bear witness to his downfall!"
And then I drank three birch beers and fell asleep in a rabbit hutch clutching a copy of Remedies for St.