Once Roger Goodell, his attorneys, his flacks, his band and street choir, and his orchestra finish their intensive study of gaseous anomalies in Foxborough, they might finally tend to other league business. Specifically, they might notice that one of the NFL's signature franchises, the one that plays its games in the sphere of influence of our nation's capital, is turning into such a huge, chewy cluster of fuck that you couldn't un-cluster it with a chainsaw and two cruise missiles. I realize that it doesn't carry the same molecular weight as a seven-month discussion of the ideal gas law, but the fact that the Washington football team appears to be devolving into Game of Thrones performed at Monty Python's Castle Anthrax would seem to the untrained observer to be worth at least a couple of phone calls to discover what is going on in the rolling hills of suburban Virginia.