Welcome again, imaginary Internet friends! Ohhh men. MEN! The offseason blotter is finally heating up, and CrimeBeat! is here with as many of the sphincter-clenching reality-bombs about the men behind the game we love as I feel like typing about while avoiding work. Joseph Randle got arrested again, but it was for failure to appear in court on one of the other incidents, and that’s weaksauce. So he gets no love this week.

BRING FORTH THE ACCUSED!

JACOB WORTHINGTON

CHARGE: Living a Mad-Lib Without a License; Possession of Class-B Controlled Substance (Clown Suit); Gingerness

Jacob Worthington is not an NFL player. An exhaustive scouring of the Internet (i.e. dude’s MyFace Page) turned up no evidence, other than growing up in Georgia, of ever having played football in his life. And trust me, I tried to link this in, because I desperately wanted to put this in here. So I’m going to anyway, because METH SMOKING GINGER CLOWN ARRESTED AT WAFFLE HOUSE is a headline that I love so much I expect Republican lawmakers to try to legislate against our right to marry.

So: 4 a.m. at a Waffle House in Athens, Georgia. This gentleman walks up to the counter and allegedly commences to smoking The Meth. He then locks himself in the bathroom, where the police find him, because this isn’t GoldenEye and you can’t fucking hide in a bathroom. The police search him and his “book bag” and find what I can only describe as an impressive array of drugs and drug paraphernalia, including LSD, ‘Shrooms, a “white powder”, grass, a digital scale, a smoking bowl AND a smoking pipe.

Yes, he is a ginger. And yes, he was wearing a clown suit during this entire incident. Because there is a kind and loving God somewhere in the cosmos.

No word in the police report as to whether “clown suit” included any of the traditional clownish accouterments (red nose, giant shoes, boutonniere that squirts ether) but I think we can all safely assume that it does.

TRE MASON

CHARGE: Making my week.

I was giddy for this week’s column even before BlowZo the Clown showed up, because Tre Muthafucking Mason finally gave me the Crime News I Could Use.

Mr. Mason, who was apparently so high he thought the Rams had moved to Florida instead of California, was pulled over in Less Fun Hollywood for allegedly doing 75 in a 35 zone. When the cops asked him for his name and license, he tried to outfox them by “smirking” and refusing to say or do anything other than recording them on his cell phone. When they told him to get out of the car, he went Full Toddler and “tensed his arms and straightened his body as he used the floor, steering wheel and seat to brace himself in the vehicle” so that they couldn’t drag him out. Eventually the police tazed him in the torso to dislodge him.

Once they got him out of the car, Mason allegedly refused to put his hands behind his back. The officers felt that this lack of compliance merited another appointment with Doctor Watts, tazing Mason a second time in “the pelvic area” whereupon Mason put his hands behind his back double-quick. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the officers then found in excess of 12 grams of weed in the car, including several adulterated cigars.

Two things merit discussion at this point:

First- the officers tazed him in the dick. Otherwise it would have been referred to as “the hip” or “the buttock” or something. You don’t call it “the pelvic area” on an official report unless it was right in junk, and you want your police buddies to know exactly what you did while having deniability if an excessive force complaint gets filed.

Second, the two main officers involved in cattle-prodding Mason’s junk were Sergeant Lester Cochenour and Officer Schiano. Again, kind and loving God.

SCOT MCGLOU…SCOT MACGLAO..THE WASHINGTON GM

CHARGE: Failure to Appear, Uttering a False Instrument

Scot. Scoty. Scotyscotscotscoteroo. This is not how business is done in Dan Snyder’s House of Overcompensation. It’s twenty-four full hours into the Official Free Agency Period and literally all the Slurs have done is resign some of their own shitty-ass players for vaguely reasonable contracts. Except for Kirk Cousins. I get that even potentially starter-calibre quarterbacks are rare and precious commodities, but the concept that this douchenozzle will be making more than $19 million guaranteed because he beat up on the NFC East and NFC South makes me rethink the existence of the aforementioned Supreme Deity.

But back to the issue at hand- it’s been a day and Scot hasn’t made even the slightest attempt at Winning the Off-Season. Last year, he showed some early promise in his first time at the grown-ups table. Sure, he didn’t chase Suh, because even an organization as blind and tone-deaf as Washington realized there would be a fan revolt if they went with Albert Haynesworth Redux. But $32 million for Chris “Sweet Stuff” Culliver, half guaranteed? That showed promise. That showed the Dan Snyder Spirit.

But now? After “winning” the NFC East last year, either Scot drank the proverbial Kool Aid (original Red, naturally) or he expects the fans to do so, trusting that the same largely-unheralded group will still prevail over an improved division (and better non-division) opposition. That’s bonkerpants.

Granted, Dallas has been ominously quiet. Philly has mostly just been throwing out its ex-boyfriend’s clothes and record collection, but I would argue that “addition by subtraction” may actually have some validity when it comes to reassuring players that Spray Tan isn’t creeping on their girl.  And Jerry Reese…well, Reese is about *this* close to having a warrant issued against him for Operating a Franchise While Intoxicated. You can get the right guys on the wrong terms, and I think Giants did just that, which will be fun to watch for a year. Although I do appreciate that “spending” $200 million in 20 minutes is a Baller Move.

All I can think is that Scot has become totally obsessed with proving his commitment to his existing roster, and convincing them that there ain’t nobody but them and that they are his world.

Reached for comment, Miko Grimes tweeted that while she like’s Mrs. Mccloughan’s style, she would never let her husband be paid millions to play on the same team with a tiny loser bitchmonkey like Terrence Knighton.