Another week, another Chicago Bears loss. Some people say it was the offense’s fault, others point fingers at the defense. Me? I don’t care whose fault it was. All I know is that every Sunday, my television gets hijacked, the volume is cranked up to 90, and my windows rattle like they’re about to pop out of their frames. If the neighbors could hear the swearing and screaming in my family room, they’d assume we were reenacting a crime scene from Chicago PD. Honestly, I’m surprised the cops haven’t already knocked on the door.

And let’s be real, there are no spoiler alerts when it comes to the Bears. The only spoiler would be if they actually won. Watching this team is like tuning into a soap opera where you already know the ending before the opening credits finish rolling. Even General Hospital manages to throw in a surprise plot twist every once in a while, and it has been on the air for sixty-two years. The Bears? Not so much. Their episodes always end the same way: heartbreak, chaos, and a fan base left staring at the screen, wondering why we keep coming back for more. Luke and Laura have had more successful comebacks than the Bears.

This team can’t even fake suspense anymore. You don’t need to catch every episode to understand how it’s going to end: tears, betrayal, and a meltdown straight out of the Supernanny. The storylines change, with a new coach, a new quarterback, and a new “we’re rebuilding” speech, but the ending is as predictable as snow in January.

Maybe what the Bears really need isn’t another overpaid player or hotshot coach. Maybe what they need is a mom at the helm. Think about it. Moms know how to wrangle chaos into order. We can get three kids dressed, fed, and out the door on time, with matching socks, no less. We don’t negotiate with toddler terrorists; we set bedtimes. Junk food is a privilege, not a way of life. Homework gets done before screen time, and dirty dishes in the sink mean you had better fill out a change of address form or check yourself into the foster system.

If a mom were running this team, discipline wouldn’t mean running a few extra laps – it would mean real punishment. Miss a tackle? You’re scrubbing the locker room toilets with a toothbrush every day after practice – twice on the days when Chipotle is served for lunch. Blow a coverage? No heat, no blankets – you’re lying awake in a 62-degree bedroom in shorts and a sleeveless undershirt until you learn how to stay alert. Drop a pass? Stretch your fingers because you’ll be writing hand-written apologies to every season-ticket holder until your fingers blister. And no fancy smooth glide gel ball point pens – you’re going old school with a quill and ink pot. False start? Congratulations, you’re doing stairs – ON YOUR KNEES.  And if you think you’re getting a pat on the back and an “I believe in you” speech, think again. You’re not getting off that easy. One more boneheaded penalty and you’ll be forced to carpool everywhere with a minivan full of tired and hungry toddlers with nothing but Baby Shark and Kidz Bop versions of Taylor Swift looping for hours.

Here’s the thing: the Bears don’t just have a talent problem; they have a culture problem. You can keep changing coaches, swapping quarterbacks, and writing massive checks for high-priced athletes, but if the culture is a dumpster fire, tossing money on it just makes it burn hotter. And right now, the Bears look less like a rebuilt team and more like arson.

We’re only given so many minutes to live, and yet here we are, spending them watching the same tired act: kickoff hope, mid-game rage, fourth-quarter collapse, on a good week. Chicago fans deserve better. At the very least, we deserve a different ending to this soap opera, preferably one that doesn’t require popping antacids like they were Skittles, because being a Bears fan isn’t just fandom anymore; it’s a mental health condition. Deep down, Bears fans don’t need football; we need therapy and a Costco-sized handle of whiskey – in bulk.