Brett Favre goes thru the same thing every year.

I want to play. (picks petal off flower)
I want to play not. (picks petal)
I want to play. . . .

McAlister makes sense to me. He feels good all over, just his knee is ****** up. Wait till youre in your 40's. It will make perfect sense.
I feel great. My body's just ****** up.

Just sounds like he's been playing football to me.

Allow me to fix that for you, in a Shakespearean parlance ....

To Play, or Not To Play ...... That is the Question:
Whether it's nobler in the mind to keep blowing teams out,
The slings and arrows of the outrageous Breesus,
Or to take interceptions against a sea of really bad quarterbacks,
And by opposing end them? To win, to win big;
No more; and by two touchdowns to say we win and end
The heartache of Saints Fans and thousands of naturally shocked Viking Fans,
That flesh is heir to, it's a Superbowl Win
Devoutly to be wished; to win, to win big;
To win, perchance to visualize it; ay, there's the rub;
For in that win of the Superbowl
When we have stuffed the living daylights out of the Vikings,
Must give us pause; there is the respect of the raucus Vikings fans,
That makes the Saints the Gods of the NFL;
For those who would hear the whiners and bear the frowners,
The referees are wrong, and Sean Payton is right,
The pangs of a defeated opponent, upon further review,
The insolence of the Viking fans and their blown groceries,
That patient merit of these O Holy Saints,
When Breesus himself might his quietus make,
With his bare hands? Who would dare challenge,
The grunt and sweat of Vilma and Sharper,
But that the dread of getting beaten by two touchdowns,
The undiscovered country that is our endzone by our opponents,
No Wide Receivers allowed, puzzled they will be,
And makes us win real big the Superbowl,
To the amazement of others that we not know of?
Thus conscience does make referees love us;
And thus the natural born winners and champions,
Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of going for the jugular,
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With great regard Roger Goodell hands us the trophy,
And lose forevermore the paper bags; Burn paper, burn.
The fair Golden Football! Beautiful it is in our hands,
All Saints sins forgiven and forgotten.

You are a complete hoot, Smash. Are you wearing them funny little britches
when you say all that?
.