I think we can all agree the party hasn’t really begun until Elvis pulls out a rifle.

Somebody should buy this and drive across America blaring the theme song. It may be the only thing left that can unite us.

Super Sky Point to Mike Ditka. I moved to Chicago in 2003, over a decade after “Da Coach” prowled the sidelines at Soldier Field for the final time. Yet his presence has always felt current. He arrived in 1961, a crew cut chunk of granite who hauled in a dozen touchdowns as a Pro Bowl rookie tight end. A quarter of a century later, he was carried off the field in glory at Super Bowl XX. Four decades later, his shadow casts large as ever over the banks of Lake Michigan as the only Bears head coach to ever hoist that precious Lombardi. He’s beloved in this town for many reasons. Because he always said what he meant and meant what he said - even if sometimes he shouldn’t have said it. Because he loved the common man. Because even when he was an asshole, he was OUR asshole. Walter Payton is the greatest Bear. Dick Butkus is the most violent. George Halas will always be Papa Bear. But no one, and I mean no one, better represents what it means to be a Chicago Bear, or a Chicago Bears fan, than Mike Fucking Ditka. St. Peter, grab a helmet, because today he’s young again. #RIP

We need to have a conversation about M&M’s jacket giant hat guy …

Q: How much cocaine were ABC executives on when they green lit Bigfoot and Wildboy? A: All of it.

Nolan Ryan’s arm was so damaged by the first 5000 innings of his career he was only able to strike out 16 Blue Jays when he no-hit them at age 44. It’s a cautionary tale for all young pitchers.