As if Jets fans weren’t among the most down-on-their-luck fans in the NFL (I don’t want to hear it, Cleveland and Detroit), it seems the impossible has happened. The Patriots and Giants, our two most hated rivals, are now set to meet in the Super Bowl AGAIN, for the second time in five years. The first time they squared off, I sat on a couch in my dorm room, alone, slowly coming to grips with the realization that both Boston and New York were well represented at Syracuse University. That meant more obnoxious revelry and boasting than I could take, regardless of the game’s outcome. I planned to stay inside for three weeks until the collective joy and grief subsided.

This time around, the feeling is even worse. With not a hint of irony, I dub this matchup al-Qaeda vs. Hamas. It is the ultimate lose-lose. A victory for the Pats means Tom Brady (Tom Fucking Brady) and Bill Belichick (Bill Fucking Belichick) get to celebrate yet another title. Bah-ston once again gets to remind the rest of the country that they have the fahkin’ best spawts teams in the Solah System. The upside? Miserable Giants fans. After the trash talk of recent weeks, unfortunately ignited by Rex Ryan, there isn’t a more beautiful sight in the world than a sad Giants fan. Hopefully Gisele’s prayers are not answered.

A victory for the Giants, given my location, would be even worse. Yes, I’d get to bask in the gloom of Brady & Co. (not to mention Massholes everywhere), but the streets of New York would run blue, and the smack talk would last for week. Nay, months. A nuclear bunker under 5th Avenue would be the only plausible hiding spot.

I can’t imagine a scenario worse than this one.

And this is where my fandom scares me. Not the fact that my favorite franchise in all the world hasn’t won a Super Bowl since the dying days of the LBJ administration, but the idea that so much anger and anguish rise to the surface when teams like the Giants and Pats meet. After all, with wars raging, the economy struggling, and Newt Gingrich threatening as a legitimate presidential hopeful, aren’t there more important things to worry about? Yes and no. Most sports fans, myself included, derive greater joy from a team victory than from almost anything else in the world (as was reported in a recent study conducted by me, whose name and research parameters are known only to me). Family comes first. Sports come second. When the Giants and Pats meet, my rationality goes out the door, along with my common human decency. Alas, Jets fans, this is the hand we’ve been dealt. At least we’re used to it.

I’ve inevitably been asked about my rooting interests by many a curious fan – some from Boston, some from New York, and some with no stake in the game. I have no rooting interest – at least not for a team. Here’s what I’m rooting for:

  • Flash Flood: An uncontrollable deluge descends upon Indianapolis, flooding the streets and crippling the city. The game is cancelled with no announced make-up date. Indianapolis residents rejoice at the fact that there is no more Indianapolis
  • Earthquake: A la “The Dark Knight Rises”, an abyss opens at midfield, swallowing the players, then chewing and spitting out Brandon Jacobs.
  • Tie: A Super Bowl first. Regulation ends with the game knotted at 0-0. Refs get bored, call a tie, head into town, realize there is nothing to do in town.
  • Cannibalistic Mayhem: Vince Wilfork ingests Brandon Jacobs gnarled carcass, steps on scale, still weighs less than Rosie O’Donnell.  

Giants and Pats fans: I wish you a miserable Sunday.

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