I received an email from some long time readers insisting that I write something scathing about Penn State. Okay, it is in Pennsylvania, the Land God Forgot.
Joe Posanski, who is a bit more well known than I and is writing a book about Paterno, says he received a great deal of those type of emails. The Penn State nightmare obviously is a hot topic, and when events like this unfold, people want answers from a Higher Authority, and they often turn to voices they trust for those answers. I am flattered that individuals read me enough to look for me for answers, but I just a clown on the internet.
I don’t really have much to say about the Penn State situation because I don’t really care about the Penn State situation to research what happened to put forth any sort of moral indignation that can be sustained by anything more than flatulence. I would much rather waste my time perusing Jeremy Hermida’s career minor league numbers to see if he is an Andy Marte type cripple hitter, or look at the 1954 Indians’ strength of schedule. Pedophilia in Central Pennsylvania isn’t something that holds my interest, nor do I feel any strong emotions to Penn State football — it just fucking there, man, like garnish on a dinner plate. Sure, reports of child molestation pisses me off, but I have worked in the inner city long enough to realize bad, bad things happen in the world. Why would Happy Valley be immune?
Joe Paterno isn’t a god; he is an old man, and old people don’t make good protectors (something to do with dentures in the Jello). There is no such thing a human football deity, and those who believe in those are naive at best. There comes a point when old people need to step aside, and deifications usually prevent that process until something ends very badly. I don’t care enough about Penn State football to know if Paterno should have stepped down years ago, but this mess in Happy Valley sure suggests that.
Dead Religions 
Skip to the Penn State face-saving outcome. There is a way Pennsylvania can come through this morass and still look good. They can achieve this by not giving Jerry Sandusky a cell all by himself. He should be coupled with a 350 lb Hell’s Angel who loves silver-haired 67-year-olds who enter the compound wearing just a hint of Mennen Skin Bracer.