Cincinnati, a franchise known for stripes and existential plot twists, announced they have solved a major weakness by sprinting to the waiver wire like it’s Black Friday at a store that only sells pass protection.

“Other teams use analytics,” a team official said, “we use retail therapy.” At the end of final cuts, they leaped into the NFL’s communal Lost and Found, emerging with three mismatched gloves, a mystery safety, and the confidence of a man who just negotiated with a vending machine.

What was the major weakness? The team declined to specify, which is a bold strategy that keeps every position both motivated and terrified. Fans guessed it was “tackling,” “time management,” or “the offensive line remembering they share an area code.”

Cincinnati’s scouting department reportedly watched 31 teams delete files and then yelled “Ctrl-Z!” on speakerphone. “We look for players with upside, grit, and an appetite for leftovers,” the director of pro scouting explained, while labeling a box ‘possibly a nickel, possibly a myth.’

Armed only with a pocket cap-space calculator and a laminated card that reads “someone else’s cut equals our destiny,” the Bengals rummaged for the kind of depth that becomes folk hero or trivia question by Halloween. They left with three athletes and the faint smell of freshly opened chance.

Strategy-wise, it’s very Monty Python: send brave knights to the Waiver Table in search of the Holy Grail of Competence, then hope the castle doesn’t turn out to be French and throwing farm animals. The team’s analytics group calls it “expected windfall added,” a stat that measures how often someone else’s mistake becomes your starting nickel.

At the press conference, a coach lifted a manila folder labeled “We Fixed It” and spilled out a coupon, an index card reading “bend, don’t break,” and a purchase order for a clearance-rack punt trainer. “We believe in value,” he said, “and coupons are values you can laminate.”

As a historian of coaching trees and other foliage, I can confirm: the waiver wire is the NFL’s pawn shop, where yesterday’s misfit becomes tomorrow’s “system fit” with the subtlety of a new adjective. Cincinnati has chosen the ancient path: spend draft picks like heirlooms, then patch Tuesday with a cornerback named Dave.

The fan base responded with a mixture of applause and careful optimism, like adopting a cat that already knows the playbook but occasionally blitzes the curtains. “Who Dey?” they asked, briefly considering the answer might be “Whoever’s free by noon.”

If the moves work, the Bengals will be declared geniuses who zigged while everyone zagged. If they don’t, the team will heroically pivot to Plan C: sign a practice-squad legend with an arc so powerful Pixar weeps during his install meeting.

The internal metrics are promising. One pickup posted an elite rating in Grit Per Snap, another led the league in “arrives on time with mouthguard,” and all three scored above average on “able to identify ‘Mike’ and existential dread.”

In closing, the Bengals insist they’ve addressed the major weakness, which, depending on results, will be remembered as either visionary roster judo or the NFL version of duct taping a submarine. Either way, they left the waiver wire with a receipt—just in case the major weakness came with a 30-day return policy.