Super Bowling

Thank you God, and thank you baby Jesus. It's here. It's finally here. The big one. The alpha and omega. The Super Bowl.

How do I love the game? Let me count the ways ...

Hit em' hard enough to knock him back into his mother's womb

Underdogs. I'm not a Giants fan. Nevertheless, it was a thrill when they beat the snot out of New England. Tom who? Brady what?

Let's give it up for leg warmers.

Superbowl parties attended by body-painted, Miami based strippers. Awesome ... just awesome.

Quick! Someone run over to Sesame Street and grab the Count. We need some help here.

Jewelry. The Superbowl is an excuse for men - albeit a select few - to wear some really gaudy baubles.

No really. It was an accident. I swear it was. I have no interest in seeing your boob, Janet Jackson.

Wardrobe malfunctions. This is the sort of thing that happens when we try to combine a half suit of Samurai armor with cheesy pop music. Happens every time.

Would you look at that ... they're double teaming the tight end. Don't see that everyday.

Pay-per-view spin offs. Nuff said ...

Wish I was back there ...

The very best part of Super Bowl Sunday is that many of the bug chuckers stay home, who would otherwise be wading the runs of the river. Anyone fishing today is likely to have little trouble finding a spot to himself. An inch of ice and a grumbling wife conspired to keep me from making the trip.

In the words of many a Giants fan, "There's always next year."