A Gruden in the Hand is Worth A Noll, Walsh, or Belichick in the Bush.

Jon Gruden has been fired by the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Zygi, pal, sign him now. Not for this upcoming season. I know, that’s already in the bag. Jon will want to take a season off. He will spend some time with the kids, the wife, or the garage. You know, all those things that living ten months a year for twenty hours a day in a luxury office tucked in next to a room stocked with iron and cardio-machines would not allow you to do. Maybe Jon will get in a few rounds of golf. Maybe Jon will stain the deck. Maybe Jon is interested in catching monster Minnesota walleye, and piling up a couple nice swamp bucks (Jon, shoot me an email, jeffgregg@jeffgregg.com, I’ll hook you up). Maybe we will see him on ESPN veritably waxing and waning in time with Boomer, TJ, and Key. There is plenty of dead air, get rid of Coach, no one likes Ditka anyway.

This is when you seal the deal for next year, Vikings. Mr. Wilf. Sign. Him. Now. It’s time to take a step from the stoically pale eyes of Bud, the Sherriff’s Putsch, the Tice Debacle—we haven’t had fire here since Tarkenton ran Van Brocklin out of town (Uncle Burnsie doesn’t count because all that muth&%#@^ker sh&%bag son-of-a-biatch could do was swear).

The homicidal doll is cliché, I know, but it’s true. Chucky would be embraced by the true Viking’s fan. Not the ones that sit on their hands and talk in hushed tones. Not the corporate muckity-mucks holding court for status and deals. He will be knighted by the fans I know. Dyed in the wool, they wear Carhart and hold Masters, drink Grain Belt and read tomes, they run Cats and wear mascara, groovy chicas and dudes, cops and teachers, dirt bags and saints.

The Vikings must have Gruden. Can you imagine him being behind the controls of Adrian Peterson? Sure, he might run him into the ground, I would put the health over/under at two years with Gruden running the show—Cadillac where have you been? Dickerson, 2105 would be in danger. Pounding AP thirty-two times a game behind a pulling Big Poppa Hutch will wilt weak sides like the romaine lettuce in my crisper. I don’t know why the hell I ever thought I might use romaine as tuna boats to help cut down on the carbs. And, he would be coming into Frazier’s Viking’s version of the Tampa Two, with a well seasoned yet young playing pack of rabid dogs. If I believed in matches made there, Heaven just might exist in someplace other than fairy tales and Stephen King films.

Zygi, SuperBowl XLIV, Miami, F-L-A (as Lou Reed would sing about Holly), 2010—I will buy my plane ticket tomorrow. Send me an email to let me know you have him on the payroll, jeffgregg@jeffgregg.com, I promise I will not say a word. Northwest will be booked, or is it Delta now, who knows what teetering on the brink owns what failed giant now-a-days.