If we were looking for the appropriate way to celebrate our official bid for a professional sports team, we might toast the occasion with a bottle of champagne. But then, to our eternal chagrin, we're not Frank D'Angelo.

If we were, obviously, mere champagne would not suffice. Nor would our own brand of beer, for obivous reasons. (The "slightly apparent aroma of overripe stock at a rundown fruitstand in midsummer with a hint of evil" is especially a problem.) No, only cracking open a cool, refreshing Cheetah would really suit the occasion. And as we all know, the only way to really enjoy a Cheetah is to dress up like a Samurai, affect a vaguely Asian accent and humiliate Ben Johnson some more.  

Honestly, at what point do we have to stage an intervention on Ben's behalf?