Midnight strikes, and Cinderella loses her slipper: El Doctor is dead.
Twas the Falcons did him in, on the Monday back-up default. The storied streak and the novel approach ends, fruitless . . . but for his own enjoyment, and the enjoyment of the many merry men and women who tracked it over sixteen glorious weeks. Mad Dog joins him on his way out the door, frothing at the mouth over the scalpless 'Skins.
We reach the Final Four. Every man left makes a little money, though one will stand above the rest. There is still much to gain, and lose, on the first day of the new year, our two thousand twelfth. Happiness to you and yours, and wishes for a glorious coming 366.
That is all.
