I wish I could say I were tilting mai tais in Tahiti or frolicking on the sands of the French Riviera right now, but I'm actually chained to a laptop somewhere in middle America, fighting off sleep.
So why am I as happy as Fred Durst on the set of a B-grade booty flick? Because even though I'm writing a column during my vacation after a grueling -- OK, semi-strenuous -- offseason of fantasy analysis, I know one thing: Football is coming.
In fact, as I sit here huddled over my computer monitor, courting carpal tunnel syndrome and perhaps some as-yet-undiscovered eye-strain condition, I feel more like Ferris Bueller cutting class than an indentured servant. All of the tediousness of February through July washes away when training camp starts, and throwing around ideas about the only-weeks-away 2005 season feels like duping the principal, like, niiiine times.