Inside the museums, infinity goes up on trial - Bob Dylan
On Super Sunday, you shall awaken to scantily clad gorgeous members of the opposite sex feeding you pie, oversized grapes, and sizzling bacon and then you'll lick double-chocolate ice cream off of a fat glazed donut wrapped in three different Mediterranean cheeses. That's a Super start to a day of moderation that will live forever in your mind.
Super Sunday is a museum, part of your memory of life - Kumbaya.
Mark it down, you're remembering this day because even if you don't or can't or won't ever want to, you will still be reminded of it forever. All the cameras that have ever been invented (including security cameras from all the 7-11's in Texas) are aimed at this Super Bowl.
Super Sunday is officially a Super Day; declared so by the Department of Homeland Security (lest we take an interest in Soccer). So that means once you've had a slice or 11 of pie with your bacon and cheese, you surely must begin betting and drinking because the economy would tank without this day's worth of illegal betting and legal heavy drinking. It's part of the Bush economic recovery plan. Actually, it's the whole plan.
I've pumped air into my beer-store furniture, and I've dusted off the velvet Van Gogh's of hound dogs playing poker that hang throughout my one-room mansion. Let us hold hands and pray - Kumbaya, oh Kumbaya again. The hootenanny begins.
Let us gather, let us feast - let us beat the point spread.
My great toothless, and spineless Aunt Zelda – who gave me this cracked, square crystal ball that made me a rich man - once told me, in one of her many psychic Alzheimer stupors that I came to depend on for NFL insight, that Nostradamus left his pick for this particular Super Bowl in a dark cave in New Jersey.
This process isn't easy. I had to wrestle an alligator to get to a map that directed me to that dark cave full of tigers and bats where Nostradamus left his predictions and his famous recipe for chili.
I've got bruises, plus a fiery tongue. But I now know what's gonna happen.
And, to hedge my bet, I had six smart monkeys working five long months on four absurd equations with three possible results involving these two professional teams, and they found one score that's gonna happen. I had to trade a velvet hound dog painting to the monkeys to find out their score.
And I loved that painting, the subtle brilliance of those dogs. But the monkeys came up with the same exact score as Nostradamus, and they like the painting too.
It takes more than my Aunt Zelda's crystal ball and few trained monkeys to pick the results of the biggest game in the history of the world. So I talked to a financial journalist who is also a financial planner – my friend, Dolores Kong, the host of "Dollars & Sense" on AM 1060 WBIX in Boston www.wbix.com.
Like all those who give advice on managing money, Dolores was looking for an edge. And when we talked, it was Chinese New Year and Dolores decided to look into how Tom Brady and Jake Delhomme might play in this, Year 4072 on the Chinese calendar – coincidentally, the Year of the Monkey.
According to Dolores' research, Brady was born the Year of the Snake (just like Martha Stewart) and this is supposed to be the best year for them. Delhomme was born the Year of the Tiger (same as Alan Greenspan) and this is supposed to be a difficult year for them. Essentially, 4000 or so years ago Chinese calendar makers picked the exact same score as Nostradamus and the six monkeys.
I really do have a great Aunt Zelda, and a cracked crystal ball, and six trained monkeys that type this column for me each week, while I eat yodels and scratch myself. And yes, I have Nostradamus' Super Bowl picks for the next decade hidden in New Jersey's finest caves.
But since it's the end of the year and I've been accepted into the witness protection program, I'm going to come clean as to how I really pick these games.
See, I don't really have a clue at all as to what is going to happen although I'm guessing that if you give Bill Belichick's super adaptable defense two weeks to prepare for the Carolina Panthers one-dimensional offense, you have the makings of a blowout. It's interesting about Bill Belichick. Lacking both the charisma and schmoozing chromosome apparent in most every other professional leader, Belichick - rather than screaming like Howard Dean – just mumbles and wins.
Yeah, Gillette Stadium is a mere 58 miles from here and sure, most everyone I know in this part of the world is a Patriots' fan but that doesn't make me biased. (I still think the Cleveland Browns have a reasonable chance to win this Super Bowl. That makes me biased.)
Watching the Patriots play football makes me biased. You can look it up – I was one of the first journalists anywhere to make the Tom Brady/Joe Montana comparisons. All those who laughed at me – especially you Browns' fans who insisted that Tim Ouch was better – should understand that when it comes to football predictions, I have connections.
Thus, don't be surprised if Tom Brady goes deep to Bethel Johnson for a 46-yard bomb on the second play of the game. And if, two plays later, Brady connects with Troy Brown for a touchdown, all you'll be able to do is wonder where you can buy trained monkeys.
And if it doesn't happen exactly that way, don't be surprised either because, frankly, some of these documents are so old that I can't really read them. Look, all I know is that Nostradamus, Chinese calendar makers, trained monkeys, and my great Aunt Zelda all say:
But there is no explanation anywhere as to why the Super Bowl is in Houston. Houston? I spent the summer of 1980 in Houston and I was surprised to later discover the city is in Texas, not hell.
Besides, when the Patriots keep stuffing the Panthers' running game and force Jake Delhomme to try to beat them, he'll find out just how difficult it is to be a tiger in the year of the monkey.
On the other hand, cool Tom Brady will win another Super Bowl MVP (more valuable than League MVP anyway) and bring it home to a parade in Boston. There, one million fans will crowd into the ancient streets of the city and shout the quintessential NFL champion's cheer: "Yankees suck!"
This column is sponsored by the new Levitra/Viagra cocktail, and spectacular breasts.