There’s about two weeks before draft day and I couldn’t be less excited.  My email inbox is getting peppered with requests to look over this or that guy’s mock draft, and the local and national radio talk is either all about the start of baseball season, the Final Four (now over) or the draft.

But I was listening to Erika Silly-yes (dude, you have to learn to enunciate) on ESPN radio, talking to the Lions’ new GM Whatshisname, who said that only half of those players picked in the first round ever have a sustained career in the NFL, let alone achieve Pro Bowl status. (*thumb-thumb-thumb – looks up in encyclopedia, finds picture*)  Sure enough, he’s right.

And the odds that a pick will dramatically improve a team’s fortune when that pick falls into the later rounds drops precipitously.  So why bother investing a whole lot of time and emotion on something that likely won’t make a huge impact?  Remember pick #5 overall in 2006? Remember how excited everyone was?  Remember how you felt in 2008, wondering why AJ Hawk looked more like Rudy Ruettiger than Brian Urlacher when standing next to his teammates on the field, and wondering if he’d been fitted with one of those metal halos you get after a head injury, because it seemed like the bones in his head, neck and shoulders were fused?

So when people are getting all up in my email and radio, excited about the draft and who’s going to be picked and by which team, it seems crazy to me.  Like the kind of crazy you’d need to be to look excited about going to a penis-cutting-off party.  Pretty effing crazy, right?  Unless you’re an ex-girlfriend of mine.  Then you’d probably be writing out the invitations by hand. In calligraphy.

We’ll pick who we pick, and because it’s Ted Thompson pulling the trigger on selections, we’ll get a million-dollar man for only $983,000, we’ll botch a few selections and we’ll end up 10-6 in 2009.

But we’ll be without our penises, which makes me a little sad.  Wait, I mean extra large sad.

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