The NFL Draft: That long weekend in April when you're on a hot date with your favorite football team. She's dropped some weight, let her hair grow out, picked up a cornerback from the Jets. (Looking good, baby... Is it getting hot in here or is it just you?) Each day she shows you a little more (Oooh, a quarterback from NC State... he's so big... Josh could use a little competition... mmm, nice), throws in a couple of surprises (No more LaGarrette Blount? But you know I kind of like it rough... but who's this? Jeff Demps? Oh, he's fast. He'll get you there quickly... God that's hot... I don't know how much more of this I can take... please just kick the ball off already)...
Then?
"Well, good night. See you in four months."
(Huh? Wait. We're just getting started. My poor little blue footballs are killing me.)
And just like that... you're alone with a half-eaten plate of cold nachos wearing an Alstott jersey with your pants on the ceiling fan (don't judge me).
Long and perverted story short, the Buccaneers answered some off-season questions, left a few unanswered (no linebackers?) and the rest are open to endless hindsight debate and second-guessing by illiterate drunken experts in Tampa Bay men's rooms everywhere until training camp. Just please refrain from engaging until I zip up. It's creepy.

Speaking of bizarre encounters, Royals pitcher James Shields took the mound Tuesday against his former teammates for the first time after 12 seasons with the Rays. But never mind that shit, what's the deal with all the high-school-girl tweeting after the little spat between pitcher David Price and some umpire on Sunday? Juicy!

"Love... it's a real mother f***er, eh?"
-Old School

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.

The Buccaneers lost another game they may very well could have won, this one in the Mile-Stoned City and by only eight points, the most Tampa Bay has been beaten by all year. (I know, right?) And if it wasn’t for that Denver stud, Mitch Unrein (huh?), the Bucs just might have had a better shot at the upset. In case you’ve been living under a rock in the Ozarks with ear-buds pumping Rebecca Black (Who? Google her!), Mitch Unrein is a second-year defensive lineman out of football-factory Wyoming who caught the first touchdown pass of the game (wait, what?) from Denver quarterback Peyton Manning and hit Tampa Bay quarterback Josh Freeman just as he threw the pick-6 in the third quarter, sending most living rooms into a simultaneous rendition of “Aw, come on!”

Big Picture Alert: With four games left, if the Bucs don’t win again this year, they’re still better than last season’s record by two. So no matter what happens between now and then, one thing is for sure. The 2011 Tampa Bay Buccaneers sucked harder than Honey Boo Boo on a McDonald’s shake. Good God, is that not the most nauseatingly graphic example of the end of civilization ever to be televised? And I hear that Honey Boo Boo show isn’t much better. Hey-ohhh!

Every year, it seems the concern about concussions in football gets more popular. Passionate. Polarizing. Please.
Hold the phone, slick. Do you mean to tell me that repeated blows to the noggin by a 200-pound human Rock'em Sock'em Robot at a 4.5, 40-yard dash pace may lead to long-term damage to the brain? Am I on Candid Camera (You may know it as Punk'd)? Yeah okay, Skippy. Almost had me there. I suppose repeated filter-less Camels damage the lungs, or … or maybe repeated rounds of Sam Adams Summer Ale may cause long-term liver damage, wait, wait, wait, here's one. Repeated Ding-Dong usage may lead to Titanic-Butt-Cheek Syndrome.

Prom, Senior-itis, caps 'n' gowns, awkward breakups ("So HCC is, like 20 minutes away and stuff? I think we owe it to ourselves to be free"), awkward yearbook entries ("I didn't really know you, but we did have a few laughs in...Statistics, was it? Okay, bye") and for the rest of us grown-ups with electric bills and alcoholism, second degree burns from the steering wheel.

Ah, summer is here. (No, spring was canceled, sorry.) So, what kind of half-assed sports writer would I be if I didn't at least make a feeble attempt to help out the average sports fan in this otherwise sleepy sports season? A third-assed one at best? Break out the sun block and throw the weiners on the grill. It's your 2012 summer sports guide. This year, 80 percent man-thong free!

As I watched the NFL Draft last Thursday night holding a beer in one hand and trying to get a bartender's attention for a second beer with the other, I'll admit I was hoping for Trent Richardson. Contrary to everything we've learned about the risks of picking high on running backs (durability, dog-year football lifespan, may decide weed is more important), I just kept coming back to him. Why? (Forget it, Bill. He's a Brown. How is this relevant now?) Shut up, Rational Bill! Dead-horse Bill is talking...what an asshole. Anyway, I'll tell you why. Five hundred carries without a drop and only one fumble in his entire college career. Money! Now he's headed to Cleveland where the nicest thing you can say about that city is the Cuyahoga River hasn't caught fire in over 40 years. Kudos!

Then the Buccaneers pulled the old switcharoo on us pseudo-experts and picked the Alabama safety Mark Barron over the DB Claiborne. No problem. Anybody on that championship defense is a stud, we need a safety as much as any other defensive player, and the guy hits like John Lynch. Plus after Morris Claiborne scored about as high as Morris the cat on the Wonderlic Test, there was speculation whether or not the kid could pour piss out of a boot if the directions were written on the heel.

After three games of embarrassingly jaw-dropping, eye-rolling, remote-clicking football scores on the Tampa Bay Rays over the weekend, the Red Sux still never did what pitcher James Shields was able to do to them in the fourth. Shut them out. The 30-year-old (or 65 in pitching years) avoided the sweep, sent the Boston trash back to their baked-bean-eating, wife-beating, high-school-not-completing lives, and proved he can still attack the strike zone like a young punk.

Speaking of punks, Rays reliever Fernando Rodney sports an idiosyncrasy slightly more annoying than his first and last name reversed. He wears his cap like Snoop Dogg (Snoop-a-loop is still relevant, right?). Manager Joe Maddon predictably yet disappointingly came to his defense.
"…I love it, and you can put a capital L-O-V-E in there. He's just expressing himself and for those that have a hard time with that, too bad."
Sweet baby Jesus in the manger, Maddon. Do I have to remind you there's no I in capital T-E-A-M? Yo Joe, mind if I take the mound with my Avenger boxers hanging out of my baggy baseball pants? Wait, did I say pants? I meant jorts. Gotta express myself. Madonna said so.
Want individuality? Play tennis, Agassi. (You remember Agassi, right?)