Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

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"If I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn't be more surprised than I am now."
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One of my favorite movies of all time is the original "Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory." Near the end of that cinematic wonder, when Gene Wilder's Wonka informs the young Charlie Bucket that he would be given the reigns to the factory, the following exchange occurs:

Willy Wonka: But Charlie, don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he he always wanted.
Charlie Bucket: What happened?
Willy Wonka: He lived happily ever after.

With the news that His Holiness is a Jet, you can call me Charlie Bucket.

Honestly, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the news, which came via a phone call from Joe Pendleton and a text from the Sandman simultaneously as I sat in an Oregon restaurant. Before I checked either, I rushed to the bar and asked two fellow diners, who were watching television, if Favre had been traded. "Yeah," they replied. "To whom?" I replied tentatively.

Their reply, "The Jets," set off a raucous celebration between me and, well, me.

Now, I realize that things probably didn't end well for young Charlie Bucket. He was only about nine years old and no doubt ill-equipped to run a large business. Who knows what sort of union trouble he had with the Oompa Loompahs, not to mention Veruca and her malfeasant friends were stuck in various places around the factory.

Similarly, I don't expect things to go smoothly with the arrival of His Holiness in East Rutherford.

But right now, I. Do. Not. Care.