As you might've guessed from our eerie silence, we're somewhere just this side of dead. Or at least, after four straight days of drinking, we're more or less pickled. But considering we did manage to stumble our way into the stadium, we should probably say something about the game itself.

That's a little tricky, since games notable for their plethora of field goals generally don't make for especially good conversation. But courtesy of some great seats, we did gain a bit of insight into the sorry excuse for Grey Cup finalists that the Als turned out to be.

(For those great seats, by the way, we owe the good folks at Canad Inns Stadium some thanks. The night didn't start out too well, since the overhang above our seats had sprung a leak – giving Rusty his own private shower of...well, we're not sure what it was, exactly, since it was a perfectly clear night. But to their credit, it only took a few minutes after our complaint for them to move us to different seats, which happened to be a lot closer to the field. Not so good for Rusty, who was soaked for the rest of the game, but rather enjoyable for the rest of us.)

Anyway, the thing about the Als is – how to put this delicately? – they're pansies.

Yes, it was cold outside. But you know, the rest of us managed. The Hamilton cheerleaders, who probably have an average weight of 102 pounds, even managed to rip off their jackets during their routine to perform the rest of it in sleeveless shirts. So you'd think that the Als - big men playing a championship game in front of millions of people – would have so much adrenaline pumping through their veins that the temperature would be the last thing on their minds.

Instead, these guys were one step away from huddling together for warmth. True, they did manage to find the energy to yap incessantly at the Lions - including, inexplicably, as the B.C. players ran out of the tunnel at the start of the game. But every time they came back to their bench, which we were conveniently seated behind, all the testosterone apparently left their bodies.

We knew it was a bad sign when several players – Ben Cahoon and Dave Stalla among them – insisted on putting on sweatpants every time they left the field. But what really blew our minds was the ass-warming.

It's one thing to go by those sideline heaters now and then to warm up your hands a bit. But we've never seen so many guys make a beeline for the thing every time they come off. And we've certainly never seen them constantly use it to heat their posteriors.

Understand that these guys were actively jockeying for position – stepping in between one another to get this sacred spot. And while some of them were at least subtle about it, several others were literally wiggling their butts in front of it to get the best possible position. You really haven't lived until you've seen Mark Estelle do this for minutes on end.

Personally, we'd have left just moves to Nelly Furtado, and worried more about what was happening on the field.
But then, we don't have the experience choking in the Grey Cup that the Als do.