I'll say this for Jason Whitlock: he didn't once bring up Jeff George's name in his latest column. Progress comes in the form of small steps, people.
Instead he wrote 700 words about how the saga of Terrell Owens is no different than men who are infatuated with trying to "save a stripper," and give her a fresh start and a new life, complete with not-so-subtle odes to rap lyrics, references to Casino, and the image of T.O. table-dancing for Stuart Scott. Yeah, I better just let Whitlock take it from here.
If wide receivers are strippers, then Terrell Owens is a boob job and a new strip club away from extending his NFL career ...
It might take a minute, but I fully expect some NFL team to entice T.O. off the stripper pole with a three-carat, princess-cut diamond by July.
It's what men do. Despite the warnings from Bell Biv Devoe, we're always willing to trust a big butt and a smile. A pair of double-Ds that hang just right always trumps common sense.
Every man has a little Captain Save-a-T.O. in him.
Something tells me Jerry Jones is not one to heed the advice of Bel Biv Devoe (he seems like more of a Boyz II Men fan).
So what's next for Owens? Apparently some NFL owner giving him the Adam "Pacman" Jones treatment.
That's how they do. They live for the dollar, satisfied knowing that two out of every three NFL owners are eager to make it rain on a T.O.
It should probably not surprise anyone that, if T.O. is the stripper, then Al Davis is the creepy old man lurking in the back of the strip club, who eats the buffet and wears sweatpants for his lap dances, is the most interested, waiting to lure the flashy stripper away with dreams of cash, and down-field passing.