Note to football players and other high-level athletes: God doesn’t exist, and he certainly doesn’t give a shit about your physical trials and tribulations. And, yes, congratulations to the Saints, but no, your victory does not “prove that football is more than just a game” (it’s a game); nor does it “validate” New Orleans as a city (naked drunk chicks do that); and if the Saints took their inspiration from Hurricane Katrina, as Drew Brees claimed, well, who gives a shit.

And yet, speaking of shit…

Back when JP was first being convinced to lose the diapers, I did perhaps an overenthusiastic job of praising him each time he dropped a load in the toilets rather than his pants. Thus, he would often come out of the bathroom, sprint (still naked from the bottom down) into the living room and proclaim loudly and lustily, “I pooped!” Everyone at home (including the dog) was expected to cheer and then suggest he go back to the bathroom to have his bottom wiped.

Now whenever I see one of these morons thanking God for giving him the money to buy steroids, or saying Lucifer made him beat his girlfriend’s parakeet to death, or when the players celebrate like it’s 1999, I can’t help but compare their level of self-involvement with that of a 3-year-old in the darkest reaches of the anal phase.