That's right, you little horny bastards. Valentine's Day is upon us. That glorious one day of the year when the calendar forces you to cowboy up and purge all the cheesy, ooey-gooey, lovie-dovie, vomit-inducing deep feelings you have to the one you love... with a $4 card written by somebody else. (But I signed it myself!) Indeed you did, Casanova. You win a handy. Keep your chocolates, flowers and spankings. Nothing's more heartfelt than that rare romantic soul-baring reminder of why you don't kill them in their sleep for leaving their short-and-curlies on the soap. And since love and sports go together like the Super Bowl and Monday cottonmouth, I'd like to hand out some early love notes to do my part and see if a few more of you can't have a happy ending this February 14th. Pucker up, buttercup.
49ers broke hearts in San Francisco. Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. I don't know who came up with that line of refried horseshit, but after the opening quote I needed to class it up a bit. Until this season, the San Francisco 49ers had never suffered a Super Bowl loss. Something every other "dynasty" (Cowboys, Steelers, Patriots...) had already done at least twice. Now the 49er faithful are left to ask themselves if the yearlong relationship was worth it after ending like a wet fart on a date. Not to worry, San Fran freaks. Harbaugh heartbreak is nothing a gallon of Beef Rice-A-Roni can't drown. By the way, if you're not seeing Alex Smith anymore, is it okay if we ask him out? He's totally dreamy and there's just something about Josh Freeman we can't trust.
Speaking of trust, the Rays' marriage with St. Pete has become downright irreconcilable, and we're beginning to suspect the relationship is becoming abusive. They're still living in that downtown dump, St. Pete has refused to get a new place, and let's just say there's just not a lot of action going on inside the house if you catch our drift. And any time the Rays think about dating other people like that cute guy Tampa across the bridge, St. Pete gets all "You're not going anywhere," and like, waves the marriage contract in their faces like he owns them and stuff. And if anybody tries to call? He threatens them like some psycho. Totally messed up. Girlfriend, you need to ditch that zero and get yo-self a hero. Tampa will treat you real good, put you up in a sweet crib, and shower your seats with butts. Someday you'll be, living in a big ol' city, and all St. Pete is ever gonna be is mean.
Speaking of denial, Manti Te'o (you didn't think I would pass up this opportunity, did you?) has brought his imaginary girlfriend back to life by discovering an imaginary cure for leukemia (and death!). Te'o and his hot hallucination honey will be spending Valentine's Day in his spaceship, which he built himself out of Popsicle sticks, traveling the galaxy slurping Pina Coladas (like his girlfriend, the drinks are virgin... you know... Mormon) and get married on Mars where Santa will conduct the ceremony and spend their honeymoon... wait for it... on the moon. If you're reading this in Denver or Seattle, that made total sense, dude (cough!). Total cost? Zero dollars. Who's laughing now? Not you, Denver and Seattle. I saw you giggling at your coffee cup for 15 minutes. Take a break.
Quicker Hits: Baltimore linebacker and Lakeland's own Ray Lewis ended his 17-year NFL career with a bang (or stab... whatever), ending his love affair with the Ravens as a two-time Super Bowl champion (he plans to spend Valentine's Day with his four baby-mamas with whom he's fathered six kids... bow-chica-bow-bow); former Buccaneer fat boy Warren Sapp, who has one less Super Bowl ring than Lewis, but one more baby-mama, became the second Tampa Bay player in history to be inducted into the pro football Hall of Fame over the weekend (Sapp will celebrate February 14th over several boxes of chocolate with his favorite Valentine and biggest fan: himself); Lightning? You may have stood us up for the first few dates, but you've more than made up for it recently. You are forgiven (we won't walk right for a week, if you know what we mean); Finally, football? We'll wait for you. Call us maybe?