PLEASE, NO MORE AUTOGRAPHS

I'd like to begin by taking a moment to congratulate myself on being a fan of the New York Giants. It was a long, hard season, but I fought my way through the adversity. I overcame half a season of football in standard definition, long commercial breaks and even remote control malfunctions that caused me to change the channel MANUALLY! I don't know how I did it, nor, to be honest did I think I could, but I did, and now the Giants are champions.

I will admit this victory did not come easy. Even during this very last game I had to overcome a sore throat, acid reflux and the cruel temptation of winning $200 should the Giants not score on their final possession. Yet, just as Abraham in his quest to follow God's command to sacrifice his son, I too triumphed over these tests of faith, will and determination. I sit before you (metaphorically speaking) fully and wholly satisfied by the result. I didn't do it for glory, for immortality or because my son was thirty six years old and still living at home. I didn't do it to for the money (though if there are those out there who feel compelled to compensate me for last night's performance, I will be accepting gratuities), or for the repeated shots of cheerleaders (though seriously, whoever invented cheerleaders, dude, I owe you one), to be honest I can't even tell you why I did it. All I know is this, I cannot be bothered by anything today.

Update: Things, apparently, still bother me.

Sadly, if entirely unsurprisingly, the news was not good throughout the world. In Israel today, a suicide bomber killed two people and injured eleven more. According to the NY Times there were two bombers, but, in a display that epitomizes how it is a billion Arabs have failed to destroy Israel, the second bomber was standing too close to the explosion and was injured. An alert Israeli police officer saw the injured murderer reaching for his bomb and in a display of quick thinking and skill that boggles my mind somehow managed to kill him before the menace could blow himself up. That's how I would put it at least. Officer Moor, however, is a much better writer than I and so I give you his own words.

“His hand was twitching. He raised it again. So I shot four bullets into his head and neutralized him.”

Isn't there just something savagely beautiful about the understatement?

In a less serious vein I am also bothered by Ryan Seacrest. How a man who uses more feminine products than a menstral call girl can be chosen to host the Super Bowl the SUPER BOWL; the most manly event in the universe after the World's Strongest Man Competition (I mean those guys hurl beer kegs 20 feet in the air and pull trucks with their earlobes, so really I don't think it'd be a good idea to tell them they're not manly), is beyond my comprehension. I mean that decison was so dumb I couldn't find any redeeming value it with an electron microscope attached to the Hubble telescope.

In fact, I kind of wish I could get he and Officer Moor in a room together. What? I'm just saying, accidents happen. Besides, what's a little neutralization between police officer and ubiquitious, unctuous, untalented talent show host? At the very least I hope this generation's Star Search host will be redcued to handing out those jumbo sized Pulisher's Clearinghouse checks for a living in the near future.