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The Debriefing is a column that runs every weekday at 9:00 a.m. here on FanHouse. It goes deep into one issue and then bounces around to a plethora of smaller ones ... and does it all in a way that will make you feel like the prettiest girl at the cotillion. Bookmark this page, and visit daily.



Today, friends, we have a special guest. Writing today's column is a 3rd Vick brother, who writes to us from heaven. I'll let him explain. Please give him your full attention. This is important.

Hi everyone. First, I want to thank MJD for giving me an open forum here. It's rare that I get direct communication with living people from up here in heaven. I keep trying to get God to spring for a T1 line up here, but He won't do it. Ol' Yahweh can be so stubborn.

Anyway, I guess I should explain my existence. My name is Tooth Vick (and I'll explain that in a second) and I'd like to tell you how I came to be, and how I arrived here, in heaven (and yes, in heaven, everyone is a Miss Gossip drawing. One of my favorite parts of being here).

When my brother Michael was born, and this is a very little-known fact, he was actually born with a twin. That twin was me. And at first, I remember everyone was excited about having twins, because it was a surprise. I never showed up on any of the ultrasounds because Michael always had me in a headlock in the womb. I don't know why. He was mean.

(Also at the bottom: This Beckham debut is beginning to look like a disaster, the World Series of Poker comes to a dramatic end that I could not possibly care less about, the Padres are the ones to steal on, and a tennis player disappoints me ... )

But when we were born, everyone said, "We have two boys, how precious!" Michael came out first, and by the time I took the ride down mommy's birth canal, Michael was already up and doing wind sprints. When they say that Michael Vick was born as a quarterback, they weren't kidding. He was born with a goatee and 4.4 speed.

And as soon as I was delivered, Michael looked at me like Shawne Merriman looks at a fumble. He clinched his teeth, leaped at me, and severed my umbilical cord with a forearm shiver. Then he picked me up (I did kind of look like a football, I guess), and threw me in a perfect spiral, crashing through the window of the maternity ward. I died just seconds later.

Tragedy, right? Wrong. None of my family members really seemed to mind. They were all like, "Did you see that? That boy threw a perfect spiral! And with incredible velocity!" Everybody picked up Michael and hugged him and celebrated and said, "This boy's going to play for the Falcons one day!"

I do remember hearing, just before I took my last breath, my Uncle Willie whispering to Aunt Martha, "I'm glad Michael's talented and all, but what if he just killed the smart one?"

Aunt Martha just shrugged and said, "Oh, they'll have another boy, and I'm sure he'll be smart." Aunt Martha was never known for her good judgment.

And then everyone went and bought Michael a real football and little baby cleats. I was dead, but I guess in a way, I was happy for my brother.

Oh, and about my name? Yeah, shards of glass shredded my aorta before anyone could name me, so I arrived in heaven without a name. St. Peter met me at the gates and said, "This one doesn't have a name. What's his last name, Vick? Let's call him Tooth. Get it, Tooth Vick? Like toothpick? God, I crack myself up."

He really thought that was hilarious.

Anyway, if you don't mind, I'd like to use this time to talk to my brother, Michael. I'm not speaking to him directly, because, to be quite honest with you, I'm not sure of the rules up here, and I don't know if I'm allowed to talk to people who will spend eternity burning in eternal hellfire. And Michael ... I'm sorry if this comes as a surprise to you, but I've checked God's list. It's not good news for you.

But it might cheer you up to know, Michael, that dogs go to heaven ... just in case you had any sort of conscience about that thing.

Actually, when your dogs first started arriving here and coming up and licking my hand, I thought to myself, "Awww, this is sweet. My brother knows I must be lonely in heaven, and he knows that if he sends a dog up there, it will go to me, because I look just like him, since we're twins!" I was moved by the gesture, I really was.

As it turns out, though ... I was reaching. You were just killing dogs.

I figured it out when that one dog arrived here with Don King hair, as if he'd been electrocuted. I checked at the gates with St. Peter, and he looked at the log book and told me that, yes, that dog had been electrocuted. By my brother Michael and/or some friends of his. And not because Michael wanted his brother Tooth to have a 47th dog to keep him company in heaven ... but because that dog wasn't a very good fighter.

I just can't tell you how disappointed I am. I forgave you for killing me at birth. I mean, I understood that you had a great arm and wanted to show it off, and I was the closest thing around that you could pick up and throw. I understood.

I mean, I wasn't happy about spending my 13 seconds of life crashing through a double-pane security window and then bleeding out on the floor while everyone made goo-goo eyes at you, but I made peace with it, because I thought to myself, "At least my brother will lead a great life. He is strong and talented and he will make everyone proud." So I forgave you, embraced you, and loved you from afar.

But no such luck for Tooth. No, my brother turned out to be ... you.

And the dog electrocution is just the beginning of it. If I read this indictment correctly, you're accused of killing dogs by hanging them, drowning then, and by picking them up and slamming them on the ground? May I be so bold as to ask why that seems okay to you?

Come on, brother. I know you're better than that. If you absolutely have to kill dogs, can't you just ... I don't know, shoot them? They probably wouldn't feel that, and you know you can borrow a gun from your brother. Just call him and ask, I promise he's got at least one gun on him right now. He doesn't order an Egg McMuffin without being strapped.

It's just difficult for me to understand, Michael, why someone would go to the trouble of hanging a dog. You need a rope, you need to tie a noose, you need some large, sturdy structure from which the animal can hang ... and then you have to stand there and watch him die. Unless you are a truly, truly, sick person ... why go to the trouble?

And I'm not even sure if that's worse that drowning a dog. Assuming the little guy has any fight left in him, you'd have to physically struggle to keep his head underwater. Would you go to Wal-Mart and buy a little kiddie pool just for this purpose? I'm curious. I'm curious to know what goes through the mind of someone who (allegedly) drowns a dog. I'd ask someone up here, but, and you might want to make note of this, Michael ... there aren't any people in heaven who drown dogs.

I'm just getting tired of it, Michael. You're ruining my reputation up here. Johnny Unitas walks past me every day in the lunch line and says, "You know, your brother's a real ***hole." Reggie White stole my iPod. And Walter Payton stopped by yesterday and punched me in the face. For no reason! Just because I'm related to you. I'm getting the hell beat out of me in freaking heaven, because of YOU. You think I like that?

It used to be fun, being your brother in up here. When you were at Virginia Tech, doing amazing things and playing for a national championship, I was a minor celebrity up here. I got to hang out with Marvin Gaye and Malcolm X, and we all watched your games together. It was a blast, brother of mine.

And when you got drafted by the Falcons, Tupac bought me a red Falcons jersey. We were all so excited. When you had that incredible game-winning run against Minnesota in overtime, everyone went crazy up here. I spent that evening getting drunk with 'Pac and Biggie (they're getting along now), and that night, all the ladies up here wanted to get down with me. I'm not at liberty to say too much about it, Michael, but Princess Di is a very big fan of yours. Very big.

I wore that red #7 jersey with pride, every day. So what if your quarterback rating wasn't so great? You were still fun to watch play.

Even when the whole "Ron Mexico" thing broke, and we read that you were spreading herpes around like interceptions, it wasn't that big of a deal. Hell, Unitas thought it was hilarious. He nudged me in the ribs and said, "Ron Mexico! HA! That's pretty good. I used to check in to the clinic as 'Ted Bangladesh.' That brother of yours is alright."

No one cared about your weed-loaded Aquafina bottle, either. If you thought we would, then you don't really understand what heaven's all about.

But this dog-fighting thing ... I'm sorry, man, that's not cool. We don't have any more room up here for your dead pitbulls, okay? Stop killing dogs.

Dogs don't even fight in heaven. Did you know that? All they do up here is play fetch, chew up old shoes, and enjoy their re-attached testicles. They also like to and sit around and curse Bob Barker for telling everyone to whack their dogs' scrotums off. I don't know if Bob Barker's getting in up here or not, but God's promised the dogs a one-day abatement on the "no fighting in heaven" rule. There's going to be hell to pay up here for Bob Barker one day.

This embarrasses me, Michael. It's like you and your brother are trying to one-up each other. Your brother gets charged with giving alcohol to teenage girls, and you raise the ante, call yourself Ron Mexico, and spread herpes to half the women in the southeastern United States. Your brother takes a gun into a McDonalds, you raise the ante and (allegedly) toss a dog into a bathtub with a toaster. Not cool.

I've heard that you're "devastated" about this, and I hope that's true. But I hope it's because your own conscience is kicking in, and not because you just got caught. No matter what happens, though, I'm still your brother, and I still support you. I want you to know that.

So if you do get convicted, I'll see if I can pull some strings and get you sent to the same pen where they've got Rae Carruth. I know you're sad right now, but there may be a silver lining. Tell me you two wouldn't make a great prison-league tandem. Heck, he might be the best receiver you've had in your career.

I gotta go now, Michael. I'm playing golf today with Mike Webster, James Brown, and Kurt Cobain, and we've got an early tee-time, because it takes James Brown 9 hours to play a round of golf. He's never sober, and he sings, "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" every time he makes a putt. We like watching him dance, but his golf spikes just destroy the greens.

But before I go, I just want to wish you good luck with everything. For so long, I've enjoyed your career with an eye towards a day, years and years from now, where we might be reunited up here. And today, when reading that indictment, I realized that that day, dear brother ... may never, ever come.

Lovingly but ashamedly yours,

Tooth Vick





The match was called a "friendly," but this guy's not so sure.

Hanover 96 and Glasgow Rangers played a friendly, and this gentleman got carried away and ran onto the pitch. At this moment, with a hairy policeman's forearm pressed firmly to several major arteries in his neck, I'm guessing he wishes he had that decision back.






Orlando Hernandez. El Duque gave up just 2 hits (both to Adrian Gonzalez) through 7 innings, and allowed 0 runs ... beating Jake Peavy and the San Diego Padres last night. Hernandez also went 1-for-3 from the plate, and stole a freaking base.

I don't know if the Padres have noticed this, but every other team in the league certainly has: there's not a catcher on the Padres roster who could have thrown out Rosie O'Donnell stealing second in A League of Their Own. It seems like Michael Barrett and Josh Bard would be better off using the pitcher as a cut-off man when they throw down to 2nd base.

Every single given up against the Padres is just about automatically turned into a double. I'm no Bill James or anything, but I'm pretty sure that's bad.



Anastasia Rodionova. Sometimes, it's a very fine line between being Yesterday's MVP, and Yesterday's Sad Sack. For a while, Anastasia was in line to be the former ... one post-disqualification quote later, and she is the latter.

Anastasia was disqualified from her WTA match yesterday with Angelique Kerber after she launched a ball at a group of Kerber fans. She had complained during the match that the Kerber fans were applauding and making noise during points, which is not something they're supposed to do. At this point, I was of the opinion that Anastasia Rodionova was awesome.

Then she denied she did it.

"I still don't understand why they defaulted me. I'm really upset. I've never seen in my life anyone defaulted in this situation. I had no warning. I didn't hit the ball at anybody. I didn't swear at anybody. I didn't throw my racket."

So she's not awesome anymore. She's either wrongly accused, or she did it, and won't admit to it. Either way, I lost respect.

If the quote had been something like, "Yeah, I did it. I only regret that I missed. I was aiming for that loudmouth hooker with the big nose. She wouldn't shut her damn mouth, so I tried to knock her teeth out."

Had that happened, she'd not only have been Yesterday's MVP, but also in-line for a great deal of SchruteBucks on Friday.



7:30, ESPNU. Soccer. FIFA U-20 World Cup. Austria vs. Czech Republic.
8:00, ESPN. MLB. Detroit Tigers @ Minnesota Twins.
9:00, ESPN2. Boxing. Wednesday Night Fights.