I’m not even going to pretend to be mature about this. Watching these five Packers podcasters slowly descend into absolute misery brings me an unreasonable amount of joy. The stunned silence. The hands on the head. The thousand-yard stares. It's all magnificent. I just want the camera to stay right there and let me enjoy every glorious second of the pain. These goofs spend all week talking Packers football with the confidence of five men who have cracked the secret code of the NFL, despite collectively having about twelve minutes of organized football experience beyond Pop Warner. But none of that matters right now. Right now, I am here for the misery. Every sigh. Every grimace. Every defeated look exchanged across the table. Every moment where somebody appears to be questioning why they ever became emotionally invested in this stupid sport in the first place. Is it petty? Absolutely. Is it childish? Probably. Do I feel even slightly bad about it? Not even a little. This isn’t schadenfreude anymore. This is a spa day on the Riviera. And I'm soaking in Packers fan misery up to my neck.