I'm back, bitches, and not a minute too soon. I've been waiting eight long months to tell you something very, very important:

I told you so.

But you just didn't want to listen when I said the Patriots would beat your Philadelphia E-A-G-L-E-S by three in the Super Bowl, didya? You just had to call and leave those profane voicemails questioning my prognosticating prowess, threatening to come and gut me like, well, like the Eagles got gutted on international TV. Smarts, don't it? And to make matters worse, Donovan could barely rinse the puke taste out of his mouth before you had to sit back and watch T.O. turn the long, cold offseason into an episode of Greed Factor. Hoo-fah.

So, here you sit on the precipice of another five-month march toward heartbreak, but you're figuring everything's cool, ain't ya? You think that the rest of the NFC still blows, so it'll be a cakewalk of a season. That T.O. is gonna lay off the antics and top his 14-touchdown output from last year, so he'll be all happy-happy joy-joy. That the defense has gotten stronger with age, so even if all hell breaks loose on offense, they can ride B Dawk's coattails to Detroit.

Poor things.

By the time you wake up Tuesday, you'll be scrambling in the middle of Broad Street, looking for the lug nuts that fell off the wheels of your bandwagon.

"Damn," you'll be thinking to yourself, "who knew T.O. would pull a Ricky Watters going across the middle with a minute left? If he'd have caught the friggin' ball, they could've downed it, kicked a field goal and won by 2. But nooooo, we just had to go and let Ike Reese sign with Atlanta. And he just had to go and make a game-clinching interception. Man, I can't see this team beating Dallas, let alone winning the Lombardi Trophy."

Atlanta 31, Eagles 30.