Last thing I remember...everybody was singing "I scream, you scream, we all scream for icecream", and then WHACK!!! No more George Allen. No more Rosie, Roman, or Merlin. My '67 GTO is no longer parked out front. Instead, I wake up with hybrid cars and this freakin' thing called the Internet. What happened?

Worse...I find football is supposed to be clean and nice-nice. Whadya mean they're not supposed to kill the quarterback?!? No more clothslining?!? What kinda crap...?????

My time warp into this brave new world, separated from the old by a blink and sudden shake of my head, all seems so watered down compared to before...you know, before, like when dirt and blood and cussing and biting were all considered good etiquette. We've gone from muscle to muzak, from manliness to meek, and once again...where is my damned GTO???

Okay, it wasn't a time warp. It's just me being 54 and waking up each day to a world that sort of seems like the same football planet I came from, except this new one has pretty flowers sticking out it's earholes. In the old days, extra-bad hits were viewed with a certainty that the other team would soon be taking out kneecaps. It was fair. It worked. And I understood it.

Now, we're not even permitted to TALK about taking out the opponents.

I want my GTO and I want it NOW!!!!

Next thing you know, somebody's gonna try to tell me we've elected a black president....wait a minute...what's that you say...our first black president is named....Bill Clinton???

Freakin' time warp.

I want my icecream back.