Here’s another guy who outside of the greater Tampa metropolitan area could easily be in the Witness Protection Program. The number on his jersey is significant as it represents the actual quantity of Buccaneer fans who can identify him.

That’s your last Super Bowl-winning quarterback. Bucs fans. He’s Brad Johnson, and if there were a Dubsy Award for being in the right place at the right time, it would have his name on it. In the midst of stumble-fucking his way through 15 seasons as an NFL quarterback in other places like Minnesota, Washington, and Dallas, he managed to be a Buccaneer when Jon Gruden took Tampa to the top of the football mountain in 2002. If Tom Brady and the Buccaneers win on Sunday, “Mr. Forgotten Quarterback” gets relegated to “Mr. Even More Forgotten Quarterback.”

Who the hell am I kidding? No matter what happens, nobody’s ever going to care who Brad Johnson was…not even in Tampa…even if he admitted doctoring footballs before that Super Bowl.

This Fuckin’ Guy: Part IV

Don’t let the jersey fool you. That’s not Tom Brady doing a balding “Clark Kent” thing. Not to mention, I’m going to keep this on the “high road” and not address the obvious abusive psycho-sexual nature of the dominant “Rocky” pose and the submissive “bondage and discipline” helmet and mask ensemble.

Instead, this is all about the guy in the jersey who is actually my “blog brother” SportsChump. You may remember him from such collaborations as Point-Counterpoint, Tales of Depression and Sorrow, and The Blogger’s Roast of Yours Truly, J-Dub.

Not only that, we’ve lamented on the fact we are the same age…seriously, we were born on exactly the same day. But despite the fact we are the “Walther Matthau and Jack Lemmon” of the blogosphere, even I don’t have that “Old Man shorts and dark socks” combination. But we are still both Grumpy Old Men.

Having said that, if the Chump’s Buccaneers win the Lombardi Trophy, we will all never hear the fucking end of it. If it makes you feel any better, I’m completely to blame for this. See, I’m the one who turned SportsChump into a hockey fan, and now that the Tampa Bay Lightning are the current holders of Lord Stanley’s Cup, my “blog brother” has become “Championship Crazy.” A great example came last fall when the Tampa Rays made it to World Series. The man who self-admittedly walked away from baseball then had a brain aneurysm over manager Kevin Cash’s handling of the Rays’ pitching staff.

From the day Brady signed with the Buccaneers, Chump’s blog has been one giant electronic erection hoisted over the idea that Tom Brady will bring the Lombardi Trophy back to Tampa. Worse yet, I told him the odds were stacked against the Buccaneers. In other words, now that the odds of Tommy and Tampa winning the Super Bowl are down to a field goal (give or take depending where you get your action), the Chump is licking his chops at the chance to take my own words and shove them so far up my ass I’ll be tasting his bargain-brand supermarket after-shave in the back of my throat.

At least in his “Brady Boner” piece, SportsChump admitted he’s one of the 14 fans who remember Brad Johnson.

The City of Tampa Itself

Don’t let that photo fool you. Tampa is putting on it’s best face for this Super Bowl, in much the same manner horrendous people pave over their faults for dating-app profile pictures. That “profile pic” got you to “swipe right” on what you thought was a “get-able” version of Jennifer Garner, but you ended up forcing down something truly disgusting from Olive Garden while sitting across from somebody who has more moles on their face than teeth in their mouth.

In a nutshell, that’s Tampa. Just like that god-awful Tinder date, Tampa simply can’t afford to show you what it really is…it’s the South pretending not to be the South. Tampa can build all the trendy, touristy hot-spots and shiny skyscrapers they want, but that can’t hide the fact this city has feral chickens fluttering about everywhere.

Seriously, you can be walking through Ybor City and see a real, live cockfight break out before your very eyes. And as one would expect, where you have free-range chickens, you have free-range chicken shit. Everywhere. In other words, Tampa is the world largest chicken toilet, which when combined with Florida’s stifling heat and suffocating humidity gives most of the city an aroma reminiscent of a truck stop men’s room when chili is the special of the day.

Even if you can find a part of this city which doesn’t smell like chicken ass marinating in stale Bud Light, you’re likely going to be the victim of some sort of crime. There’s a reason why 90% of episode of shows like show like “Cops” or “Live PD” were filmed in the greater Tampa area.

Really…what else is there to say about a city which uses cops dressed as clowns for prostitution “sting” operations? At least Jacksonville owns up to the fact it is Florida’s anus, but Tampa doesn’t seen ready to accept it is Florida’s taint.