What’s wrong with Peter King?

Say what you will about context, but Peter King is writing some real crazy shit this week:

"Wake up, Washington. You know what I dug out of my closet the other day? Form-fitting Detroit Tigers pajamas. Now we'll see if all the sweat pays off… nausea and terminal ugliness… miso soup… people would watch that. Not to be preachy but there's hope both for the killer and the killed. What happened when the action was really live? Discipline! The redemptive quality of accidental death grips you. Taut. Sounds like the script for a commercial. An altogether needless Brett Favre leads the nation in screwing, scurries from one explosive reacher to the next. How about throwing it to Jay Mohr? I've been staring at that dude since I was a kid, and it's time I do something about it. 34 inches! He's used to giving, struggling to fit, now I'm ready to take all his powerful stuff out of spite. Just wake up every morning and go. We've been in here 45 minutes? I thought it was 10 or 15. Pick him up and have it done in two days, only with more aggression, dripping with sweat in the center of some hotel. I tell you, there's nothing sinister about packers, and I feel very good about the nuns, but you can only mow your grass so many times. Tell them to eat balls. Who knows? We'll all make it. You're welcome."