R.I.P. F.R.R.

As you all know the black WPM half-mast flag (which I was too lazy to edit) is only for the saddest of blog occasions. Unfortunately I must bring the flag out again today as the blog/Twit-osphere lost a close e-friend in Fake Rick Reilly.

Five days a week Fake Rick Reilly enlightened the lives of anybody who enjoyed brilliant puns or anybody who just hated Rick Reilly. I will forever wonder what Real Rick Reilly's reaction was to seeing a Twitter that ruthlessly mocked him with his own game.

It was impossible to chose, but here are a few of my personal favorites from FRR's short life:

Apparently, Jayson Williams is suicidal. Let's hope he makes the most important rebound of his life.

On the other hand,Kobe doesn't Shakira who he plays - he's ready Whenever, Wherever! And those 3 champions-hips Don't Lie! Lakers win title.

RIP Nick Adenhart. Now he is really IS with the Angels.

Let's hope the Diamondbacks give Nick's family free season tickets.

At the tender age of 11, Timmy Poe had already lived a life of misery few can imagine. Until one Yankee hero decided to make a difference.

Abandoned by hippie parents at age 5, Timmy bounced from orphanage to orphanage, but no one wanted him. The two lazy eyes didn't help.

Timmy also contracted a rare strain of "polio measles", which would have baffled his doctors, if he could afford treatment.

School was no better. Though he tried to fit in, kids were predictably cruel to the weirdo who made his own clothes from stolen recyclables.

Just when it seemed things couldn't get worse, a box arrived for him at the orphanage. He'd never had a Christmas before, let alone in July.

Inside was a baseball, signed simply 'A.J. Burnett'. And beside it a note, reading 'Certificate of Authenticity'. Timmy stared transfixed.

"It's a really nice gesture, I guess, even though I don't really watch baseball," said Timmy. "I was kind of hoping it was my medicine."

So athletes aren't heroes? Tell that to Timmy as he checks through the box again. Sport - it brings out the sick little kid...in all of us.

I would like to personally thank Big Daddy Drew and Gourmet Spud for all that they have given us.

I will allow my friend/FRR follower Gould to offer some closing words:

I'm a mess. Yes, I am aware that is precisely how I started off the e-mail to Seplow regarding Friday Night Lights. At this point either I appear to others as though I'm in a constant tailspin into the depths of nothingness or more accurately way too much of my life is dependent on fictional football and fake Twitter. Here's the thing, as I wrote that e-mail to Seplow, a month or so back, my FNL world had been shattered. Nothing seemed right, nothing felt real. But as I sat there and penned (typed) my heart and soul one thing got me through it, FNL would be back. As upside down as everything felt, I knew I could count on another season (or two) of Coach Eric Taylor righting my ship.

So things got better for a while, I decided not to dwell on my FNL issues and I even moved on, found a new friend. Its name was Twitter. But not the egotistical fucking lame actual Twitter. My friend was FakeRickReilly and it was everything I was not. I tried to be more like it. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I tried to flatter. I even used your forum, WPM, as my platform once in relation to a certain commenter and once in relation to a post itself. I mean this with complete honesty, FRR was my life force. FRR was Professor Quarrel to my barely alive soul/living on the back of someone's head Voldemort. Anytime I became weak I'd slip into the Forbidden Forest and drink the Unicorn blood that was FRR. And now FRR is dead, like truly dead. Any loyal follower knows it suffered a severe blow before, shutting down for a few days. But when it came back, it came back bigger, better, faster, stronger. I have no idea why it left. All I know is the fashion in which it did was great, just like it always was. I wish so badly I could think of an incredible pun to end this e-mail with but nothing seems appropriate.

Where do we go from here?