WARNING: The following commentary is penned by a sports writer who really doesn’t care about sports. Any facts or statistics have a 75 percent chance of being complete fabrications and any opinions expressed are neither the opinions of this blog site nor at all accurate or logically supportable and most often times incoherent blabblegarky.

I think it is wise to preempt this blog with two things. 1) I am still having difficulty understanding what exactly a blog is and 2) I am not a Giants fan. Conversely, I am not really against the Patriots, per se, but I am against the 2007-2008 Patriots. I’ll admit it, I’m a bandwagon hater.

I jumped on the hatewagon; not because of Spygate, not because I’m jealous of Tom Brady and his smokin’ hot super model girlfriend, and not because Belichick is built like a middle-aged lesbian (and his red Flashdance-cut sweatshirt, I think, the cause of the final game let down). I jumped on the hatewagon because like any rational sports fan, when a non-Cincinnati (or non-fill-in-the-blank) team is having success, I want to see them get burned, and preferably in the most poetically ironic way. Losing the last game of their near-perfect season worked out pretty well for that whole poetic irony thing…and maybe I’m a little jealous of Tom.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were good, but Eli Manning and the Patriotbreakers were much better, making my new favorite number 18 and 1. Let’s ignore that my new favorite number is, in fact, two numbers…and a word. Also, my new favorite color is red and blue, but not New England red and blue, the other red and blue. Maybe it would be easier to say that my new favorite color is Strahan-gap black. And my new favorite drink? Brady Tears (Gatorade’s newest…now containing more electrolytes and 30 percent more choke).

After week four, if was clear the Bengals were back to the Bungals of the 90s, so I jumped on the Brett Favre wagon–he has a smokin’ hot wife and is actually likeable. The Packers were eliminated, I shed my tears for Brett and for football, and I jumped on the anyone-but-the-Patriots wagon. The only real reason to root for the Giants, for me at least (I’m familiar with shadows), was Eli, who takes a lot of crap just because his name doesn’t begin with a P and end in -eyton. And it was Eli, the deserving MVP, who delivered the Play of the Game, when he avoided a seemingly unavoidable sack and launched a lots-yard pass down to some guy who made a great catch over his head. It was the catalyst for the touchdown, the win, for my running naked around my house, and for my first stay in prison.

More importantly, the commercials were just okay.

The Pete

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