When my little brother Johnny and I were growing up, we had a pretty standard relationship: I terrorized him, he tattled on me. I had three years, around four inches, and the upper hand which had a knack for finding the back of his skull or BVDs. He had the pipes to summon Mom from anywhere in the world faster than you could say Beetlejuice three times. And of course if justice wasn't served in-house by end of business day, Mother would yield the floor to Mr. Freitas, whose pissed-off dagger-eyes could light up your Orville Redenbacher faster than a Chernobyl microwave. Good times.

As the days of Star Wars, atomic wedgies and awkward boners gave way to varsity football, S.A.T.'s and negotiating bra straps, John, as he was officially later self-renamed, was known by most in the high school power structure as "Bill's brother." And why not? I was an upper-class BMOC. The sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads, they all adored me. They thought I was a righteous dude. John still had a bowl cut. Then one day, he escaped my shadow, ditched the Flowbee, became a man, and is now a big-wig corporate muckety-muck, with a wife, kid, a big-ass house and can buy and sell families. As for me? Having peaked in high school, I'm now a part-time radio hack and 2-bit sarcastic sports blogger currently writing about how awesome I was 25 years ago. Irony can be pretty ironic sometimes.

Remember the show, Dallas? Who shot JR and...um, all that stuff? Okay, I didn't really watch that show either. I was more of a Kate & Allie man, myself. I mean Miami Vice!

Anyway, fans of the beloved Ewings were hornswoggled when the last episode revealed the entire 1985 season was nothing but a dream. Duped, dumb-struck, hoodwinked and betrayed, the Dallas faithful didn't know what to believe and wondered just what else was real, and what was nothing more than a figment of Pamela's imagination (and sweet rack...what, what'd I say).

My point is, sadly and tragically Joe Paterno's last chapter has been written and has forever tarnished an otherwise positive and inspirational book. Passions predictably run deep on both sides. Supporters stress the positives and that one bad decision should not undo decades of good work. Logical and understandable argument, if not for the fact that the one bad decision, unfortunately, is severely, drastically, and diametrically the polar opposite of what a man of Paterno's perceived character would have done. Bottom line is he chose to preserve the reputation of a program over the safety of a child, which to a lot of people is unforgivable. What's horrifyingly worse is that after the pervert was caught red-handed and essentially got away with it, it didn't end there. You know there were more children after that one. And those could have been prevented. Which makes JoePa slightly more than a bystander at that point. And that's what I find unforgivable.

But maybe that's just me.

Doggie-paddling back to the shallow end of the pool, the woman who played Thunderbug, the Tampa Bay Lightning mascot, was fired for spraying silly-string on a fat, pale, loud, belligerent, douchebag. Or as we like to call around here, a Boston Bruins fan. The mouth-breathing neanderthal, who apparently misplaced his sense of humor along with his running shoes and inside voice, shoved Thunderbug to the ground. Don't get your shoulder hair in a lather, Mongo. You can't treat everyone like they're your wife. Turned out the walking condom ad flew into a rage after discovering it wasn't a can of Easy Cheese.

Eight coaches have run though One Buc Place since the Tampa Bay Buccaneers' inception in 1976. All but one (John McKay) were shit-canned. Those are some sweet odds. Enter number nine; A no-nonsense, hard-nosed disciplinarian from Jersey named Greg Schiano (cue the Sopranos theme). Schiano took the Head Coaching job at the State University of New Jersey when the words "Rutgers" and "Football" went together like pralines and dick. Since then he's built the program to a solid "pretty good" status and has made the USF Bulls his personal bitch. Which means he's already won more games in Raymond James Stadium that Raheem Morris. Zing!

Three helpful hints on your North to South transition, Greg:

Suffice it to say, I've had quite a few "careers" between beers in my 43 years on earth. From my first job delivering pizzas, to ditch-digging, video rental retail, car sales, paper sales, selling security systems door-to-door (ironically having an elderly neighbor call the cops to report a suspicious character in khakis roaming the neighborhood), to the corporate world of IBM, GTE and Kodak to name a few (seriously, if I fax you my unedited resume, your machine will smell like a tire-fire, your secretary will slip a disc and the term "forest" will be nothing more than the name of that kid whose head you stuck in the toilet in junior high). Where the hell was I? Oh, right. The point. But there's one thing I've learned that is the eternal social-economic equalizer shared by any and all forms of employment.

Meetings suck.

The carousel of cranky curmudgeon coaching candidates continues to run through One Buc Place like a Metamucil martini (don't wince, you haven't lived until you've experienced the ultimate in drunken regularity). A veritable who's who of head coaching mediocrity from Wade Phillips to Morris Buttermaker has seized the golden opportunity of the old "It can't get much worse" scenario in Tampa Bay, which has experienced a losing streak not seen since 1976, the year Raheem Morris was actually born and I was rocking out to "Shake Your Booty" on my record player (true story). Now, I'm all for a seasoned head coach to counter three years of young-gry and y-ignorant...but these guys? It's great for the brunch rush at The Colonnade (we get it, Bill, they're old!) but I don't know how much tread is left on some of these tires. That said, I can stomach Mike Sherman. Anybody not afraid to get into the grill of Warren Sapp is alright in my book. (Not to mention anyone who knew who Morris Buttermaker was without Google.)
Who will be the next salt'n'pepper-haired hope? Only time will tell.
"Not too much time, I hope," said God, tapping his wristwatch. (Sorry.)

Speaking of God, the Tebow love/hate fest continues for at least another week after Timmy once again pissed off every smug expert in broadcasting by doing something in his second year that Josh Freeman or Matthew Stafford couldn't do in three, Matt Ryan couldn't do in four, and Carson Palmer couldn't do in nine. Win a playoff game. I can almost hear the collective teeth-grinding. I've also discovered a bizarre irony among the football citizenry.