Channing Crowder is a Rhodes Scholar

Every once in a while a person comes along who is so sharp, so erudite, so urbane that you have to step back and just thank baby jesus that your ears have been graced by their wit.

No, I'm not talking about James Harrison.  This time.

I'm talking about Channing Crowder.

Let's go back to week 9, when Le'Ron McClain spits in Channing Crowders face.

This is pretty clear.  It is some "real ho shit" whatever that means.

Then Le'Ron McClain fucking lies about it.  Look at this guilty motherfucker.  You wouldn't even have to see the video to tell that this shithead is lying.  "I sure wasn't trying to, if I did."  Child, pleeze.

And I didn't know a lot about Channing Crowder at the time.  Or now.  But I did admire how he slung language.  "He's a bitch-ass punk.  Write that."

And the incident seemed to throw him off his game, as he said:

“They didn’t see Chad Henne get hit twice when he slid. Yeah, a little Stevie Wonder and Anne Frank,” Crowder said.

“Who was that? Is that the blind girl? Helen Keller . . . I don’t know who the f— Anne Frank is. I’m mad right now. F— it. I’m not as swift as I usually am.”

And that's true.  Channing Crowder is swift.

And then I read some more.  About how Channing Crowder wants to fight Mike Florio.

About how Channing Crowder, in preparing for an upcoming game vs. the Giants, had no idea where London is:

"I couldn't find London on a map if they didn't have the names of the countries. I swear to God. I don't know what nothing is. I know Italy looks like a boot. I learned that. I know London Fletcher. We did a football camp together. So I know him. That's the closest thing I know to London. He's black, so I'm sure he's not from London. I'm sure that's a coincidental name."

London Fletcher. London, England. Same fucking thing.

At least he's right about that.  There are no black folk in England.  Thank goodness!  Imagine the scandal!

And lately, we've heard from the erstwhile Mr. Crowder about his feelings regarding the MVP race.

"Everybody knows it should be Michael Vick, but they're going to let Brady win it because it's Tom Brady," Crowder told FanHouse. "You've got to go with Vick. Vick's my dude."

He's also right about that.

It's hard to argue with his analysis, especially the supporting evidence that "Vick's his dude".  That alone, should prelude Brady from winning...anything.  Ever.

Since Crowder's comments, Vick has come completely undone while Brady's game has remained lofty and stellar.  It's almost as if Vick couldn't handle the pressure of being Crowder's dude.

"It's true" admitted Vick, "I was doing great until CC put it all on me.  Am I his dude?  Shit I don't know.  But that kind of pressure was just too much to handle.  Am I his dude?  Am I not his dude?  These are complex questions, and ones that basically shut my game preparation down completely."

It's understandable.

Channing Crowder is nothing if not polarizing.  And always right.

Head-Hunting Fines Hasten NFL’s Descent into Sissified Unwatchability

By now, you probably know that the Steelers’ James Harrison threatened to retire during the second season of a $51.2 million contract over the $75,000 fine he received for a helmet-to-helmet hit on the Browns’ Mohamed Massaquoi. You also may know that, as utterly credible as this threat was, it has already been retracted. Harrison returned to the team this morning after a day of cooling off.

But the question at the heart of this principled act of fleeting pseudo-martyrdom remains unanswered: How, exactly, can a defensive player be expected to do his job properly if he’s no longer allowed to try to decapitate a receiver who has no hope of catching the ball, or a quarterback who’s already thrown it, or a running back trying desperately not to cough it up as he’s being swallowed whole by a defensive end?

Time to do some damage.

After all, good defense isn’t just about just about preventing the opposing team from moving the chains and scoring. It’s also about letting players with a less refined sort of athleticism take out their inferiority complexes on players with better-developed fine motor skills and bigger salaries. As Miami Dolphins linebacker Channing Crowder put it, "If I get a chance to knock somebody out, I'm going to knock them out and take what they give me. They give me a helmet, I'm going to use it.”

It’s all too easy for analysts to suggest that defenders lower their angle of approach and start employing tackling fundamentals again. Did you know that the typical human head comprises fully 9% of the surface area of the body? How, exactly, is a defender supposed to avoid a target that large, especially when it sits mere feet from the waist?

The NFL knows full well that its requirements are absurd. The imposition of heavy fines for head shots is but the latest in a series of slights defenses have suffered at the hands of a league that’s been systematically stacking the deck in the favor of offenses for decades now. As Crowder put it, “They make the rules for the money players. It's not for us, the defensive players."

Why, according to the Bears’ Brian Urlacher, would the league go to such lengths to protect offensive players? “Fans want to see points scored, I guess.”

Even linebackers score once in a while.

And that, my friends, is the crux of the matter: the NFL has a not-so-secret mission to inflate scoring in the interest of expanding its fan base. The numbers paint a clear picture. So far this season, teams are averaging 20.9 points per game. In 1980, teams averaged 20.5 points per game. In 1970, the first season after the merger, teams averaged 19.3 points per game.

Think about that for a second. Over the last four decades, scoring has increased by a jaw-dropping .04 points per year. At this rate, teams will be scoring 100 points per game as early as the year 3987. A mere 79 generations from now, there will be virtually no distinction between football and basketball.

I repeat: When the league office’s insidious master plan has been fully enacted, football will be basketball. Linebackers will make listless attempts to swat the ball out of running backs’ hands as they careen down the sideline. Cornerbacks will duck out of the way as wide receivers prance into the end zone.

Is this truly what is to become of our nation’s most beloved sport? I’m afraid that if offensive players' brains don't continue ricocheting against their skulls with alarming regularity, we’ll be condemned to this horrific fate.

Oh my god, our fingers are touching! OUR FINGERS ARE TOUCHING!