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 The story of the morning is the fragile state of the sovereign republic of Media Days, wavering on a wobbly truce with gentility and civilization thanks to two things: The Chick-fil-A downstairs running out of chicken ("Would you like a bacon biscuitAAAAAAAAAHHHHMYTHROATGURGLEGIRGLE") and the marked absence of any sort of wifi connection in any of the ballrooms upstairs.  Row upon row of laptop screens in the main press room read, "This page cannot be displayed." We've been here for four hours and are only now just seeing the first whisper of connectivity. If the internet (in general) values its life and fears the emergence of CyberTyde like it ought, all will be whirring smoothly by the time Dear Leader Saban steps to the podium an hour from now. In the meantime, we nervously refresh our non-functioning browser windows like pigeons at the wrong food lever, listen to grown-ass beat reporters gloat about blocking this or that rival scribe on Twitter, and pray for relief.

Stray observations:

• The designated print media room is home to a weird preponderance of non-Mac laptops.
• The designated internet media room is cramped, and smelly. The significance of this is not lost on anyone.
• Increased television presence at this year's Media Days has resulted in at least a 400% spike in the presence of skinny-hot girl reporters. (So, there're four of them floating around.)
• Fearless Leader Swindle is manning the controls of the mothership; see his decidedly more serious updates here.
• If the internet does not return and we are torn to shreds by angry journalists in what will surely be a deadly fracas, Rick Muscles can have our stuff.