But at least with Limbaugh, by the second half I might still be awaiting his next clueless, wildly inaccurate observation with the same curiosity I previously reserved for Bill Walton's acid flashbacks. I mean, let's be honest. If that's the case, they're about as hip to the facts as Dennis Rodman's next bride. And yeah, he can be as precious as Britney Spears' maidenhead. But in a sport as shiny and flawless as the Texas death-row justice system, you've got to hope that a MacMurphy inside the cuckoo's nest might at least make it bearable for those of us who'd like to make it through a game without one of the players rushing the end zone in a white Ford Bronco with A.C. sitting shotgun.
Young man works hard, plays fair, becomes hero, gives back to fans and rides off into the sunset.
Nowadays, young man squirts bleach at reporters, throws firecrackers at kids, becomes a felon and drives Porsche off into sunset. Amen, my man. So welcome, Dennis. Don't pussy out. Bone up if you need to, and don't be afraid to lash out at the boardroom of Mr. Burns clones who are about to start signing your checks.