I stopped believing in Santa Claus a long time ago, but I believe in him even less after my simple, pathetic plea went unanswered last week. Sure, it wasn’t a simple request. Still, I felt it was within reason: help the Cowboys beat the Eagles and make the playoffs so I could have a merry Christmas.

But the powers that be—this editor included [Ed: Hey, how’s it going?]— insist that I continue to cling to this column and the mediocre shell of a once-proud franchise. [Ed: By “once-proud,” are you referring to the teams of the early ’90s or those of the late or early ’70s or simply all of the teams that played in the long gone 20th century?]

I said I wasn’t going to use F-words but here I go.

Fantastic. Formidable. Focused.

Those are three F-words I wouldn’t use to describe the Dallas Cowboys this season. There are plenty of other F-words like flawed, fearful and one other I’ve been told would get me fired if I used it in this column, that I would use. So, let’s meet in the middle at frauds.

The Cowboys are con-artists. They flexed their muscles on the meek this season and cowered like a schoolyard bully after getting punched in the nose when playing anything resembling a decent football team.

In the immortal words of the late Dennis Green: They are who we thought they were.

In one underwhelming swoop, the Boyz went from controlling their own destiny by only having to beat a Philadelphia Eagles squad so decimated by injuries that it was starting arena-league players on offense.

The Cowboys had, once again (for real this time, they promised), turned the corner the week before with a dominating performance against the Rams. But, by the end of the game, the Eagles had zero healthy starting skill position players and the Cowboys had zero touchdowns [Ed: Symmetry!]. And now, this Sunday, they must rely on a week 17 miracle—the New York Giants beating the Eagles— to make the playoffs.

You didn’t think this column was going to end well for me, did you?

In fact, we went ahead and made sure that it wouldn’t. The editor and I called up the Jones family early in the year [Ed: No such call ever took place] and cashed in a favor they owed us.

Our ask: Employ Jason Garrett for as long as humanly possible. Disregard any flubs in situational coaching and turn a blind eye to the team showing up to games flat and uninspired. [Ed: Again, this did not happen.]

This miserable season will be the crowning achievement of the Garrett era in Dallas where the team has tightroped the .500 mark since he took the helm in 2010. And with a win against the hapless Washington team—the column avoids mentioning racist mascots [Ed: Seriously.]—Garrett could finish his last season at .500.

Black Monday, the Monday after the final game of the season, is the NFL’s annual purge of coaches who just can’t get the job done. Pink slips are handed out as teams move on to the next captain of the ship. This year Garrett should find one in his stocking because after all this time, he was who we thought he was. [Ed: Seriously.]