• Kelsey McNeal / ABC
• Warren Sapp in sappier, er happier days on "Dancing with the Stars."

Tampa Bay Lightning owner Jeff Vinik, or as I like to call him, Bizarro-Glazer, has decided to once again go against stereotype and offer to invest his, not our, money into possibly purchasing Channelside Bay Plaza. Just a Stamkos slapshot away from the Tampa Bay Times Forum, the troubled retail complex has had more than its share of business misfires, and outside of Stumps, Splitzville and Hooters, isn't known for much else unless you enjoy staring at giant pants and no sleeves. Seriously, tank tops need to be outlawed. There's just something disgusting about the ability to apply deodorant after you've completely dressed. Gross.

Originally developed by a Chicago-based Japanese company, later owned by a deadbeat New York scumbag, and currently owned by the Irish government (huh?), yeah, it would be refreshing to have a local investor who cares about this city redevelop a complex you can walk to from a concert, hockey game, or (cough) maybe a baseball game (cough). Oh, no he didn't!

Speaking of baseball and New York scumbags, theTampa Bay Rays gently crammed a broomstick up Yankee Nation's ass over the weekend by taking all three games in the series to begin the season. The evil empire with players making more than our entire franchise haven't been 0-3 since 1998 when I was singing into my hairbrush to "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion...I mean Aerosmith.

Rounding up the scumbag trifecta: Ex-Buccaneer butthole Warren Sapp.

Looks like everybody in Denver thinks Peyton Manning's little necky-poo issues are a-okay. So much so that they've reportedly signed the 1998 first round draft pick to a five-year $96 million contract, officially putting the "High" in Mile-High. Granted, if the old man can stay healthy, there are very few teams in this country that wouldn't violently shove their granny over to sign him. This shouldn't inspire a Tebow pile-on, even though it will. Every starting quarterback in the league not named Tom Brady, Aaron Rodgers, or Drew Brees just exhaled. But five years? And almost 100 mil? Really? Does anybody reading this think Manning has five years left? Indi apparently didn't, otherwise we wouldn't have been treated to this off-season soap opera in the first place. If Manning retired a month ago, nobody would have blamed him. He's already got the bust in Canton, the bling on his finger, and enough money to have all the HBO's he wanted. Now that he's back? What neck issue? He was only out, what, a whole year? He's fine. Here, buy yourself a country or something. The good news? You can now get a free Tebow Bronco jersey with a plate of Rocky Mountain oysters.

Turns out, we can now add headhunting to The Crescent City's reprehensible resume after it was discovered that Saints defensive coordinator Gregg Williams, along with around 25 other team members, maintained a bounty pool worth up to $50,000 to reward game-ending injuries to opposing players. Williams, 53, spat out the obligatory canned apology, calling it a "mistake," my personal favorite lie when somebody gets busted. Whoopsie-daisy! Did I just carve you a check for 50-large for putting that quarterback in a wheelchair and diapers? My bad. Yo, Gregg. If you walk out of the men's room with your fly down, that's a mistake. What you and your fellow knuckle-dragging henchmen did is called a "decision." And what's with the two g's in your name, anyway? Don't you know there are children all over New Orleans too poor to afford their own g and here you are just flaunting a spare you don't need like you're all that? And right in the middle of a g shortage, too... Asshole.

Just as predictable as the apology, came the jaded and cynical reaction along the lines of, "What's the big deal? Bounties have been going on forever!" Ooo-kay, what's your point? I'm sure before 1865 you could find a few citizens of New Orleans who said the same thing about slavery. I'm no Oprah. I know and love the barbaric nature of a good bone-jarring hit in football. But there's a fine, yet significant line between pain and hurt. Pain is a great attention-getter. Makes quarterbacks rush a pass or a receiver hear footsteps and drop easy catches. But if you hit to hurt, you are nothing more than a criminal who deserves a jail cell and an arranged marriage. Bottom line, as a player I can't remember once said in an interview, "On the field, we have an unspoken understanding. You don't try and end my career and I won't try and end yours."

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.

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: