The start of the NFL season is right around the corner, and as a hopelessly addicted fan of the Green Bay Packers, I can’t wait. I’m giddy. Irrationally so. On September 4th at 8:20 PM, the Dallas Cowboys and Philadelphia Eagles kick things off in Philly, and my calendar is already cleared. (Wait a minute – 8:20?)

And yet, like a lifelong smoker flipping the lighter while reading the cancer warning, I know better.

I know this is a guilty pleasure. Like heroin for middle-aged men in jerseys, the NFL has its hooks in me. And despite all the reasons I should quit cold turkey, I just keep coming back. So consider this not just a preview, but a confessional, a rundown of all the absurdities I somehow forgive each season just to watch a bunch of overpaid kids smash into each other for my entertainment.

Let’s start with the absurd travel schedule. The day after that season opener in Philly, the NFL is shipping the Los Angeles Chargers and Kansas City Chiefs to Brazil, São Paulo, to be precise, for what’s being called a “home game” for the Chargers. Nothing says hometown crowd like playing 6,000 miles away on unfamiliar turf in a different hemisphere.

This isn’t just unfair to the fans in L.A., who already pay through the nose to see their team in person; it’s bad business for the city. No game-day traffic, no hotel bookings, no stadium revenue. Just crickets and reruns at SoFi Stadium. One ticket through StubHub will set one back $1,035, not including parking, to see them play the Denver Broncos. Wonder if they are paying that much in Brazil.

And let’s not forget the players. They hate it too. These international fields are rarely up to NFL standards. The grass is different, the footing’s unpredictable, and the locker rooms are often glorified shipping containers. My Packers went abroad last year to play Philly, and what did we get in return? Jordan Love, our franchise quarterback, slipping and tweaking himself on the turf like a deer on ice. Great exposure for the league. Terrible exposure for his ankle.

Of course, there is one clear winner in all this globe-trotting mayhem: the NFL itself, which now rakes in $18 billion a year in revenue and is looking internationally for more. Only about half of that gets shared with the 32 franchises. The rest? Straight to the league’s coffers. So forgive me if I’m not waving the flag of “growing the game globally” when the league’s primary export seems to be cash.

Meanwhile, back in the States, we’ve got a different kind of circus. Take Micah Parsons, star defensive end for the Cowboys. He’s in the fifth year of his rookie contract, which will pay him a cool $24 million this season. That, apparently, isn’t enough. He wants $40 million. Minimum. Bless his heart.

Then there’s Trey Hendrickson in Cincinnati. He’s making $26 million in the final year of his contract and also holding out for $40 million. Because nothing screams “team player” like refusing to play while under contract. Maybe he’s just bitter. The Bengals recently committed $120 million to renovate Paycor Stadium, and I’m guessing none of that is going toward Trey’s Jacuzzi.

But I’m sure both of these guys are doing it for their families, not their egos. After all, $26 million doesn’t stretch the way it used to, not with inflation, raisin toast, and whatever else is ruining the American Dream. Having said that, either one would look awfully good in green and gold, just sayin’.

Then there’s Dak Prescott, who will earn $65 million this year. That breaks down to over $3.8 million per game. Not bad for someone FOX Sports currently ranks as the 11th-best quarterback in the league. Eleventh! For that money, you’d expect Mahomes-level magic or at least fewer overthrows in the red zone.

And just when you think we’ve reached peak absurdity, enter Drake London, rookie wide receiver for the Atlanta Falcons. In a recent training camp dust-up, he decided to physically challenge head coach Raheem Morris because apparently, his decades of NFL experience didn’t mesh well with Drake’s playbook. The rookie had to be physically separated from his head coach. Nothing says team chemistry like fighting your boss.

So yes, I know the NFL is bloated, hypocritical, and often ridiculous. But come September, and the NFL knows this, I’ll be right there on my couch, cheese-head on, bratwurst in hand, and eyes glued to the screen. Hypocrisy never tasted so good.