I do not know whom to thank for this. I received the link from a friend. It is NOT my work. It IS genius, nonetheless.

LANGUAGE WARNING: Some of the language in this flow chart is a bit raw. But it’s funny. Admit it. You laughed.

Twitter has become both the boon and the bane of today’s public figure. Twitter gives the fan access to his favorite athlete, actor or other celebrity, and that helps to boost the star’s popularity.

Twitter can also prove deadly to a career. Just ask Gilbert Gottfried, the comedian that used to be the voice of the ubiquitous AFLAC duck, but isn’t anymore after a series of insensitive Japanese jokes, which he tweeted shortly after the earthquakes and Tsunami decimated the island nation.

It is amazing how vast an athlete’s following can be. Shaquille O’Neal, for instance, one of the most popular tweeters, has over 3.6 million followers.

With the NCAA Tournament going on, it gave me the idea of looking up some of the top athlete Twitter users and forming a TWEET SIXTEEN bracket to pit them against one another and let the people choose the 2011 Twitter Champion.

Click on the image below to vote. You can sign in with your FaceBook account and cast your vote for your favorite athlete tweeter. Shaq, by the way, is the top seed. Golfer Paul Casey, with a paltry 73,258 followers, is the 16th seed.

Who do you like? Cinderella or the Favorites? Go ahead. Log in. Cast your vote. ‘Tis all in fun. You can log in with your FaceBook account, cast your votes and even leave a message, if you like.

Have fun.

According the ranting Chicago Bears defensive lineman-turned-talking head Dan Hampton, the Dallas Cowboys “think they are Clint Eastwood, but are more the Brokeback variety, if you know what I mean.”

I will leave the homophobic lamentations to those who worry over such things and instead focus on the implication and the meat head who made it.

Because they are a team of glitz and glamor, many through the years have dubbed the Cowboys as soft. It is and always has been a convenient label…and a crock of (human waste.)

In the NFL, soft teams don’t often play in Super Bowls. The Cowboys have played in eight, which is more than any other team. Soft teams surely do not win Super Bowls. The Cowboys have won five, a number only the Steelers have surpassed. Soft teams don’t feature someone nicknamed the Manster (half man, half monster.)

Speaking of Randy White, does anyone remember when he ripped Dan Hampton’s helmet off his head and bitch-slapped him with it? I suspect, though White’s age is now three years beyond the number 54 he wore on his jersey, he could still whip Hampton without getting winded. For that matter, Bob Lilly, who is only three years shy of his jersey number 74, could probably give the overrated lineman a whupping, as well.

Or, maybe Hampton would prefer to discuss toughness with Jay Ratliff or Marc Colombo…or Marion Barber, for that matter.

Hampton is just a Cowboy-hater. He always has been.

He also said he would like to be able to buy the Cowboys for what they are worth and sell them for what they think they are worth.

Well, who wouldn’t want to buy that team for what it is worth? That would mean you were a billionaire and didn’t have to sell yourself to the highest bidder to do something you are ill-equipped to do. It would mean you didn’t have to try to remember to be coherent while ranting on TV for a few bucks and a mess of pottage.

Obviously, Hampton thinks the Cowboys are soft and overrated. He also thinks that they overrate themselves. I am not exactly sure what hard factual information he gathered to help him reach that conclusion. I am sure his words were the product of a purely unbiased, analytical mind. I am confident he has empirical evidence to support his thesis.

Wait. No, I’m not. I just think he is a juvenile brat with a middle school mentality who could not resist the urge to try to be witty and funny in the presence of adults. I can appreciate that. I was 13 once, too.

The laugh-a-minute wit quickly followed his Cowboy trashing with the remark that the Minnesota Vikings should “hit New Orleans like Katrina.”

If you are in a Minneapolis bar, that is funny stuff. If you are a professional football analyst on national TV, it is kind of stupid at best. Besides, your witticism carries a lot less punch when you have to follow it up with your “sincerest apology.”

I guess Hampton never read Broadcasting for Dummies. Or, maybe he did.

Stay tuned. They may let him talk some more. Should be entertaining, if a little ignorant, insensitive and uninformed.

Who Dat Quarterback!

It took the New Orleans Saints organization 21 years just to post their first winning season. It was 33 years before they won a playoff game. Consequently, Super Bowl XLIV is the ultimate rags–to–riches tale in NFL lore. (Or, perhaps we should say bags–to–riches, since this is the team whose fans once wore bags over their heads and called them the ‘Aints.)

You would expect some memorable communications to come out of such a seminal moment in NFL history, and that is just what happened. Being the consummate investigative reporter, I was able to intercept some key text messages being sent before, during and after Sunday’s big game. Here are the ten best…

Number Ten

Tom Benson to San Antonio Mayor Julian Castro: “Looks like I won’t be needing that contingency plan after all. We’re staying put.”

Number Nine

Peyton Manning to his father Archie Manning, the Saints’ legendary quarterback and color analyst, after throwing the pick six to basically end the game: “You’re welcome.”

Number Eight

The wheels-off, derelict-looking Pete Townsend to the Devil: “Hey, man! We had a deal!”

Number Seven

Coordinating Producer for CBS Sports Steve Karasik to James Brown: “WTF did Sharpe just say? It’s unintelligible.”

Number Six

Shannon Sharpe to his speech therapist: “I demand a refund! I swear I am getting worse, dude. I can’t even understand me any more.”

Number Five

George W. Bush to Katie Couric: “You never looked at me the way you looked at President Obama today. Drool much? LOL.”

Number Four

Eli Manning to Peyton Manning, right after big brother threw that interception: “Hey Bro! Who has dumb face now? LOL.”

Number Three

Sean Peyton to Jim Caldwell right after the onside kick to lead off the second half: “You been punked, rookie.”

Number Two

Carrie Underwood to former boyfriend Tony Romo: “Told you I would make it to the Super Bowl before you did. LOL.”

Number One

Drew Brees to Phillip Rivers, as Drew was receiving the MVP award for Super Bowl XLIV: “Who dat quarterback?”

Here's your sign!

“What is crude, crass, classless, Alex.”

(Answer to the Jeopardy question: “What are the three best words to describe a typical Philadelphia Eagles fan?”)

So, Pulitzer candidate and editor of PhiladelphiaEagles.com Dave Spadaro hocked a loogie on the hallowed midfield Star at Cowboys Stadium before last Sunday afternoon’s game, recorded it on his web cam, and posted it to the Eagles’ website, thus forever endearing himself to the City of Brotherly Lust-For-Just-One-Super Bowl-Win-Please.

This from a representative of the organization whose classless coach Buddy Ryan once ordered to fake taking a knee in a game they had well in hand, and then fire a touchdown pass, adding insult to injury. This from the team whose fans gathered in mind-numbing temperatures in that toilet known as Veteran’s stadium to spit on opposing teams and pelt their players and coaches with everything from snowballs to batteries.

Dallas media outlets are trying to get as much mileage as possible out of what some of them have dubbed “SpitGate.” I have perused some of their articles to bring you the best of reader feedback on the subject.

From nbcdfw.com: “His Mom probably spit at him as a child for being a Philly’s fan!”

From DallasNews.com: “If your parents wouldn’t be proud, don’t do it. Of course in Philadelphia, that could be the wrong qualifier.”

From WFAA.com: “You stay classy, Philadelphia.”

Another from WFAA.com: “As grandparent to many I don’t see why is this a big deal. He made the mess, he needs to clean it up, the whole field, by himself, after the next game. I’ll even donate the toothbrush. Stupid kids with their videos and cellcamophone things.”

Apparently embarrassed by Spadaro’s actions, the Eagles’ brass forced him to offer an apology that at least had the appearance of sincerity. Here is what he came up with:

“As you may have seen, I went too far with my Spudcam video prior to Sunday’s game against the Cowboys. Acting alone, and without permission from the Eagles organization, I walked out to the middle of the field at Cowboys Stadium and spit on the Cowboys star, and for that I deeply apologize to the outstanding Cowboys organization and the fine people there, from Jerry Jones to the rest of the team.

It was not my intention to insult the Cowboys. It was my intention to enjoy the spirit of a great sports rivalry, and I clearly went over the line and acted unprofessionally. The Cowboys have always been gracious hosts and I appreciate the relationship I have with the friends I have there.”

(Sniff. Can you hand me that Kleenex, please? I have something in my eye.)

Spadaro’s apology, as elegantly constructed as it was, no doubt only came as the result of pressure put on him to do it. Now, the debate rages over whether he should be fired. I was actually surprised to read comments on Philly.com calling for his firing. It seems he isn’t the most popular figure with some of Philly’s more erudite fans. (I am kidding about the erudite Philly fan thing: I know that is an oxymoron.)

I don’t know what else the guy may have done to warrant being fired or reprimanded or hanged in effigy, but let me take the unexpected position that this whole flap is just silliness. Really. Come on. At the very worst, the spitting incident was frat-boyish and juvenile.

Sure, it is another sign of the deterioration of our society in general and of sportsmanship in particular. Yes, it is a sad commentary on what we have become. OK, it may be another indicator that the era of the gentleman combatant is forever gone, but it is not a sign of the Apocalypse. (Obama’s election is, of course, but not this.)

I was going to write that the city of Philadelphia had deteriorated beyond recognition from the days of the Continental Congress and the city’s greatest-ever citizen, Benjamin Franklin. But when you study American history, you understand that even ole Ben Franklin was considered a bit boorish and crass by many of his contemporaries.

He was also utter genius, pure greatness, and the embodiment of the great American spirit.

So, let’s not write off Franklin’s city or its inhabitants, even if they don’t have any better sense than to root for the Eagles. God forgives all kinds of sins…and besides, they have given us Philly Cheese Steak, which, if I think about hard enough, might cause me to drool on the Star myself.

You say classy, Philadelphia.

love is in the air

My Dearest Wade,

I have noticed how giddy you have been during our alone time lately. It warms my heart to see you so happy…especially at Christmas.

I know you had hoped to find a contract extension in your stocking. Please don’t think I am a Grinch for not putting it there. Besides, everybody loves an Applebee’s gift card. Take your lovely family out to dinner there on me and have a nice fat, juicy steak for yourself. You deserve it.

I cannot express how much it means to me to have beaten the previously undefeated Saints. They were just way too full of themselves. It was especially sweet because that coach, whats-his-name, the one who used to languish anonymously on our staff when Purcells (I know it is PAR·cells, but I always said it pur·CELLS, just to tick off the overrated Tuna) was making me and everybody else around here miserable as heck.

Isn’t it just wonderful how that smug SOB has his team under .500 and set to miss the playoffs and that little Tuna Helper up there in the Big Easy—and it was easy, wasn’t it? Like taking candy from a baby—getting knocked off his “I’m a football genius” pedestal?

But, anyways. I digress. Back to your giddiness. I know you heard my interview with the Sunday Night Football bunch and got all excited. I know you think it means that an extension of your contract is inevitable. But did you really listen to what I said? Did you hear what I didn’t say?

Let me remind you of my words:

“When I look at our team and I look where our needs are and where our input needs to be, I like Wade Phillips’ skills there. I just want for him and for our Cowboys fans to culminate in a Super Bowl run.

“There’s nothing in me right now that wants to make a coaching change, that thinks we need to make a coaching change. I want that feeling ratified by some success and we’re at the cusp, maybe, of being able to have it.”

So, yes, my dear Wade, I did confess my love for you.

Of course I like having you for my coach. You don’t suck like Chan Gailey or Dave Campo. You aren’t disinterested like Barry Switzer. You know football, but you don’t insist on actually being the coach the way Jimmy Johnson and Bill Parcells did. You are perfect for me. You let me be the coach when I want to be, but never call attention to the fact I am doing it. You…complete me.

I love you, Wade. But even love has its limits.

You will note in my words that I said I wanted this thing to “culminate (get your mind out of the gutter) in a Super Bowl run,” and I mean it. I say it is for the fans, but you know it is really for me. My legacy is in danger. Those three Super Bowls in the nineties, and all the goodwill they bought me, are no longer enough currency to stave off a mutiny if we don’t win a playoff game soon. You hear me, Wade? A Playoff game, damn you!

No more of this “well, we finished in the top eight” crap, either. You make yourself look like a loser and an idiot and that hurts me, because it makes me look like a fool for loving you.

Am I a fool, Wade? I don’t think so. I want this feeling ratified. Justify my love, Wade. Gratify my ego, Wade. Satisfy our fans, Wade.

Or, we are through.

Happy New Year.

I remain…

Your Biggest (and sometimes only) Fan,

Jerry Jones

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the stands
Not a person was cheering, not one single fan.
They all held their breath in the brisk night air,
And wondered if Santa would bypass them this year.

Their faces were painted all silver and blue,
With streaks of flesh-color from a stray tear or two.
And mom in her Nine jersey, and me in my cap,
Hoped our team would not go for that long winter’s nap.

Ho Ho Ho, Y'All

When out on the lawn I heard the snow splatter
And sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a news paper predicting another bad year.

With a flick of his pen, and his sharp-edged wit,
The writer predicted the team would just quit.
He called to my memory Christmases past,
And he smirked and insisted, “This winning won’t last!”

“Now Phillips! now, Romo! now, Garrett and Witten!
And Newman, and Spencer, they’ll all be a-quittin’!
So don’t get your hopes up, you silly old fan,
These guys will collapse and disappoint you again!”

With dry lips and wet eyes, I read on with a sigh,
Who’s this fool anyway? Just a regular guy.
Not Nostradamus anymore than I.
So I rolled up that paper and started a fire.

And then with a sigh, I said to St. Nick
Come rescue this season and come do it quick.
Surely you’ve room in that magical sleigh,
To bring us a victory this coming Sunday.

We will leave the roof open so you can get in,
And we’ll greet you with shouting and clamoring din.
And we’ll hear you exclaim as you take off again,
“Merry Christmas to all…except you Redskins.”

Cards for EVERY Cowboys Occasion

On this glorious Monday morning in Dallas, the morning after the biggest Cowboys win in two years, this enterprising entrepreneur is busy designing Thank You cards for the Cowboys fan too busy to write his own. The window for such a venture is very, very small, so I am wasting no time.

Here are a few of the offerings from the newly-formed Silver and Blue Blood Hallmark Moment Press.

To Andy Reid:

Dear Coach Reid,

Thank you for angering the football gods, annoying the officials, and poking Philadelphia fans in their bloodshot eyes, waving red flags like a demented matador with a death wish, and kicking a useless field goal with precious little time left and no timeouts in your pocket.

PS- My brother suggested you have David Akers on your fantasy team. Is this true?

To Victor Butler:

Dear Vic,

Thank you for making a play every single time you get an opportunity to do so (which is not very often, for some reason known only to Wade Phillips.) Your shoestring tackle of Donovan McNabb was a game-saver. We owe you. More importantly, Wade owes you a closer look.

To Tony Romo:

Dear Tony,

Thank you for growing up before our eyes. You turned your cap around, protected the football, withstood the blitz storm, made just enough positive plays, took sacks rather than throwing the ball up for grabs, and didn’t once use the word “fun” in your post-game interview.

To Miles Austin:

Dear Mr. Awesome,

Thank you for being the anti-T.O.

To Roy Williams:

Dear (the current) Roy Williams,

Thank you for navigating your way through all the “baiting” by local media types without going all T.O. on everybody.

To DeMarcus Ware:

Dear D Ware,

Thank you. Just…thank you.

To Greg Ellis:

Dear Fussy Pants,

Thank you for taking your bitching to Oakland. You would not believe the difference in attitude now that you are not a “team leader” …and Keith Brooking is.

To the Month of November:

Dear Mother of All Cowboy Months,

Thank you for being so kind to Romo and his Cowboys. Thirteen straight wins under your umbrella. No one has done that since 1950. Oh, and thank you for Thanksgiving and turkey and football (and family that helps eat the turkey and doesn’t interfere with the football.)

To Santa:

Dear SC,

All I want for Christmas is a December to remember for something besides late-season collapses.

These are just a few of the cards we are rolling out for the elated fan. Get yours now! Supplies are limited.