Whatever you think of our rules and regulations, at least be thankful you are not forced to operate your life under the guidelines of the massive sports empire that is the NFL.

Think of your fate under such a regime – whether you ingested a questionable hormone from a tainted batch of glowing stew during the semi-annual ‘Burning Throat Hungarian & Indian Mystery Goulash & Chutney Street Challenge & Festival,’ or you misapplied an expletive during an off-field exchange with a drunken citizen from a hostile environ, or you knocked your significant other unconscious and proceeded to drag her by the ankles through the Miami Boat Show for three straight days under the glaring transparency of the national media and klieg lights; regardless of offense, the procedures for rectitude will be administered by equal measure in all instances.

And that shall be by application of the ‘Commissioner’s Wheel of Arbitrary Punishment’.

You step into the Great Man’s office to try your hand at the Wheel.  Nearly quivering with both anticipation and trepidation for the prospects ahead, you plant your feet on the well-worn marks indicated on the floor just in front of the enormous re-purposed former casino game of chance.

Square up your shoulders, take a deep breath, extend your arms and effect a firm grip on the outer rim of the device which will determine your fate.  Be bold and let ‘er rip – those who falter, those whose first attempt fails to complete the minimum rotations for a legitimate accounting, will be required to repeat the procedure, this time under the scornful gaze and reproachful head shaking of the gathered witnesses, when even your own agent seems to slump slightly in his posture and his eyes fail to make direct contact with yours.

You’re hoping for three ‘tsks’, two ‘tuts’, a pat on the head, a lollipop and off you go, while also dreading the possibility of the grimmer outcomes.  Whoa-be-it to the sad miscreant who takes his pull at the contraption only to see the clacker come to rest upon Flogging ’round the Fleet.

Better to live your final days in remorseful, self-imposed isolation – begging half-pennies on the avenue and building funds towards a scuttle of coal before that first Autumn frost, rather than having to wear a hair-shirt and prostrate yourself before the hoards of Social-Media Maggots who are all demanding flagellation and pictures of your wife’s tits.