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I’ve become an adrenaline junkie.

The Cowboys lassoed, hogtied, and gelded the Rams yesterday in a 31-7 near masterpiece. So why am I so unfulfilled?

Sundays during football season have become my weekly trip to the amusement park. I miss the stomach-churning roller coaster ride that every Cowboys fan has become accustomed to in recent years.


Ups and downs are expected when rooting for a team that loses as many games as it wins and features a quarterback who veers from being the second coming of Roger Staubach to the second curse of Quincy Carter at any given moment.

Now I’m hooked on the rush that come with last-second victories and losses.

Imagine my withdrawal after watching the Cowboys execute a simple but brilliant game plan that spread out the offense and then fed the ball to DeMarco Murray and let him cram it down the Rams’ throats.

Three or four minutes into the game it became obvious that the Cowboys were clicking and the Rams were clunking.

A rout ensued. Three hours later, my craving for adrenaline was hardly abated.

I needed a fix.

And so I did what every wild-eyed adrenaline junkie does: I yawned,  scratched, and channel surfed for another game to watch.