This has been a pretty good weekend in the wide world at large. The Patriots limp into free agency coming off one of the most spectacular Super Bowl chokes of all time. To be fair, they did resign Teddy Bruschi who will only get better in his next twelve seasons with the team. That said, both Asante Samuel and Randall Gay left town.

Obviously, the Eagles overpaid for Asante Samuel. The scope of this contract was so ludicrous that it defies description. Six years and $55 million for a guy who doesn't like to tackle and got 25% of his career interceptions from Rex Grossman (exaggeration) is a bit steep. That said, I think TO will call a press conference tomorrow to announce he's going to retire before he has to face Samuel twice next season.

I don't think any one is thinking Randall Gay is a future Hall of Famer, barring some sort of minor miracle. But that leaves the Patriots entering next season with a huge target on their backs from Spygate, from this season's blowouts, from choking away the Super Bowl and from the last seven years of douchery. And they're going to war with Ellis Hobbs, Brandon Merriweather and spare parts. I must say, I like the way that looks on paper. Short of teaching Matt Light how to play tackle, I can't see the Patriots coming vaguely close to the level of success they almost enjoyed this season going forward.

In other matters, I get a chance to do something I never anticipated doing in this space - complimenting a member of the Rolling Stones. I do like the Stones, but I was less than thrilled with their recent album entitled Neocons. Regardless of my personal feelings for neocons, I think it advisable for musicians and celebreties to stay out of politics, especially when they aren't Americans. And I regret the days of General Andrew Jackson, when an Englishman with funny notions on how Americans ought to be doing things would find himself limping back to London, are long gone.

That said, I liked the fact that Keith Richards took a shot at Led Zeppelin, saying that he wasn't even aware they had a reunion. Obviously, since these old rockstars are all buddies, I'm betting he was joking. But that said, what was the big deal about their reunion. I'm sure there are other bands that are more overrated, but there can't be many and I can't think of one at the moment.

If American middle school and high school school dance administrators had had to courage to get together and say enough Stairway to Heaven, then the great unwashed wouldn't nuture the soft spot for this band that they harbor at the moment. Perhaps they were the Godfathers of Heavy Metal, good for them. Let's face it. For the most part, heavy metal sucks. The root of their appeal rests in the memories of people who hear Stairway and recall slow dancing awkwardly with their pizza-faced first love and hoping to steal a kiss before the wood panelled station wagon came to whisk them away. I don't see how people can look back at things like that fondly, but then again people are morons and ought to be locked up for the good of society.

And let's not forget that they made a Lord of the Rings reference in Ramble On, which wasn't a good song to begin with and got worse. When they dropped Gollum and Mordor in, that was kind of risky, since the beat Peter Jackson movies hadn't been made and LOTR was not to be referred to in open conversation unless you were a LARPer. And maybe it takes a certain courage to admit that Gollum stole your woman. But it's still beat. To be fair, though, I do like You Don't Have To Go and a couple of their other songs, but I could do without Led Zeppelin.

So good work Keith. And good work telling kids to stay off drugs. Has there ever been a more shining example of do as I say, not as I do in action? Denis Leary was all over him for making similar cracks 15 years ago. But he had a point. Keith Richards did so many drugs he just might still be high, for the love of God.

As a way of apologizing for my extended silence of late, I have a tool of note segment for you. Tonight, we honor Chris Mannix, the Sports Illustrated writer, raconteur, bon vivant and all around tool. In case you didn't hear, Mannix went toe to toe with the WBC Superfeatherweight champion in a three round novelty act.

Reaching for the stars, Mannix compared this little escapade to George Plympton fighting Archie Moore. Personally, I think it was more along the lines of Johnny Knoxville's epic battle against Butterbean in the middle of a sporting goods store. Of course, I feel compelled to point out that Knoxville fought a much, much, much bigger man without head gear while Mannix fought a guy he outweighed by 50 pounds while wearing the head gear. But that's only part of the story.

I hope for the champ's sake that he pulled his punches as I suspect he did. Otherwise, he might want to think of a different line of work. If he couldn't put Mannix in the hospital, making a living with his fists probably wasn't the best of career choices. And one might think that putting a world of hurt on the guy who's supposed to write the story hyping this little farce might put a bit of a damper on the publicity that was the reason for the sordid spectacle in the first place.

And somewhere in the midst of the article, Mannix makes reference to his street fighting past. He concedes that he lost most of the brawls from his hard luck days on the mean streets of Anytown USA. I can't help but think that the closest he came to a street brawl somehow included Ralph Macchio, Mr. Miagi and a Peter Cetera song.

More than anything, the whole macho atmosphere of the article celebrating the fact that he didn't get his ass completely kicked reminded me of a scene in Platoon. Sgt. O'Neil is attempting to tell a story of his badassery to Staff Sgt. Barnes, who is obviously not listening. But O'Neil says: "I put him in the O'Neil death grip, he didn't know whether to defecate or go blind." Obviously, I cleaned it up a bit, since we try to keep this a family friendly site. But I like to think it still captures the spirit of the thing.

Then there is the grace and savior faire with which Mannix conducted himself whilst in the squared circle. I hate the fact that I am overusing this particular line, but he did look like a newborn wildebeest on ice. He neither floated like a butterfly nor stung like a bee. He moved as though he were wearing one of those old-time deep sea diving rigs with the big bronze helmet. And he punched as though he were afraid of breaking a nail.

So if you're scoring at home, a here's a handy way to tell who is and who isn't a tool. If you're even a little proud of not getting your ass kicked by a guy who's pulling his punches, you're a tool. If you mention your past history of street fighting and come off more like Elton John than the Rolling Stones, you're a tool. If you look like a jackass whose feet are encased in cement while doing any of the above, you're a tool. Of course, "" if your name happens to be Chris Mannix, you can skip analyzing those factors and just assume that you're a tool. QED, as they say in the math racket.