Well, I'll be damned if this never-ending nightmare hasn't finally spawned an opportunity for humor. That humor may be as dark as I've kept my bedroom in mourning the loss of a stolen season, and I might still be a solid month away from remembering how to smile or laugh at it. Still, it's impossible to deny the half-assed hilarity in the NFL being caught in the Catch-22 of wanting to stay silent in waiting for the backlash to blow over while feeling legally obligated to prove that they definitely, totally, and genuinely still care about putting their foot down in regards to player safety. That picture is worth a thousand flags. A blatantly intentional helmet-to-helmet hit is worth $26,739. But the mental image of Roger Goodell cowering under his desk while launching the grenade that Nickell Robey-Coleman, in conjunction with gutless officials, officially made a mockery of the NFL's prioritization of head injuries at a time that also called into question the entire of its "integrity" in front of millions of people? That's worth...well...the type of masochistic amusement that's best enjoyed under the comfort of your own comforter after the imbibing of warm liquor. Of course, that's assuming you can continue to suppress the type of spite that will eventually/inevitably lead all Saints' fans to have a psychotic episode somewhere down the line. Also, best of luck to Nickell Robey-Coleman in his appeal. I'm sure publicly and continually puffing out his chest about his attempted beheading of the player he failed to actually cover during the biggest play of his life will serve him well throughout the process...
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