Top 10 ways to pick at the festering scab that is the Eagles loss

No, kids, I'm still not over it 24 hours later, and probably won't be for another week or so. Won't you wallow with me?

10) Local sports radio. I don't have enough courage to wade into the dregs of humanity working through their stages of grief by listening live, but you might. Don't say I didn't warn you.

9) Play by play recreations. My favorite is when Tim Hightower runs 15 yards behind his line of scrimmage on a fourth and one, before turning it upfield for the conversion. Had someone stopped him -- and yes, there were possibilities -- a red-hot offense has the ball at midfield with a chance to put it on ice. Yes, it was something of a Turning Point.

8) Listening to the Bad Tooth's podcast. Shockingly, Little William doesn't want to go to the SB, because he's having too good of a time driving around SoCal, isn't ready to subject himself to the indignities of Tampa, and, let's face it, he's just not that into it unless the Patriots are there. He's also still crying over his second-round playoff losses in a way that can only be described as Hellmuthian. Someone, please, go take out Matt Cassel's knee on a borderline late hit. It's necessary.

A moment of honesty about his overwhelming obnoxiousness is all that I ask. That, and smashing his own head in with a hammer. DO IT, BILLY. DO IT...

7) Game by game breakdowns of the Eagles season to show how easily it would have been to get home-field for the championship game, because I'm really not feeling the Cardinals winning that game on the road, in cold weather.

Here, let me do it for you: beat the Bengals, get past the Redskins and/or edge those ferocious Kyle Orton Bears. Voila, you've knocked the Giants out of the top spot in the East, and you host the game. It's fun!

6) Obsess over how bad the offensive line will be in 2009 without Jon Runyan, Tra Thomas and (shh!) Shawn Andrews. Donovan McNabb might not want to be back.

5) Become convinced that the 2009 schedule will be deadly, since the AFC West has to come back big next year, right?

4) Read all of the various game accounts in the local papers. You think Philly Fan is bitter? Think about the plight of Philly Sportswriter, who gets another year of No Quote Andy and the I Have To Coach Better Players. They might be the only people in Philadelphia who long for more of That Cowboy Feel.

3) Listening to Andy Reid's defenders. Since this 9-win team made it to the Final Four, everything has to be the same as this year... despite the fact that he traded for the worthless Lorenzo Booker, continues to employ Greg Lewis for no good reason, can't run the ball even when it's working, made LJ Smith a franchise player, should not be given a challenge flag along the same lines as taking away an Alzheimer sufferer's car keys, and... well, I'd continue here, but lists should not be novels. Moving on.

2) Listening to Donovan McNabb's detractors. 375 yards and 3 touchdowns on the road. A 19-point comeback with no running plays of note. OK, he's not perfect, but for heaven's sake... he's not the guy who didn't cover Larry Fitzgerald. That's Asante Samuel. He's not the guy that didn't make the running play stop on Hightower that could have sealed it. That's Quentin Mikell and Brian Dawkins. He's not the numbnuts who late hits Warner to give the Cardinals a gift field goal before the half. That's Quentin Demps. He's not the guy that missed a field goal and a PAT. That's David Akers. He's not the guy who slips on the fourth down throw and can't catch a perfect ball. That's Kevin Curtis.

Seriously, people, get a grip. Number Five isn't perfect, but he's the best player on the team. And when he leaves -- not Reid, McNabb -- this team is below .500.

1) Comparing the pain of this loss to the NFC Championship losses to the Rams, Panthers or Buccaneers, or the SB loss to the Patriots. What agony is your favorite? For sheer bloodcurdling madness, I think I'd go with the Buccaneers, but each, really, has its charms.

And with that, I'm going back to the liquor cabinet. Play me out, Bob...