Wasif's World

Ho! Ho! Ho! (Do you always equate that phrase with Santa Claus or are you like me and follow those words placed adjacent to one another in quick succession with the phrase “Green Giant?” Just wondering.)

As the yuletide season descends upon us, complete with bowl blowouts, playoff pushes and foot fetishes, I’ve managed to get a sneak peek at Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick’s bag o’ gifts for those sports figures we know so well that have been nice, and for some who have been naughty. (Damn liberals always have to make sure no one’s left out.)

So now without any further ado, I present to you the 2010 Christmas list for members of the sports world:

To Randy Moss, a Bill Belichick blow-up doll for him to have on hand when he can’t get the real thing.

To Michael Vick, a Snoopy stuffed animal. (You gotta start slow, Michael. Start slow.)

To Barry Bonds, a little more free time before he’s thrown in jail on perjury charges.

To the New York Yankees, Derek Jeter at shortstop for another three years. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Hahahahahahahahaha!

To Rob Ryan, a giant Rex Ryan wig to cover Rex Ryan’s ego.

To Rex Ryan, a pedicure, so he can enjoy his own feet without so much attention being paid to his personal activities.

To Mark Sanchez, an offensive touchdown.

To LeBron, a trip to the Eastern Conference semifinals with your new team ... and another loss there, just like with your old team.

To Carmelo, a team on the East Coast. (Might I suggest Syracuse? You’d still have three years remaining, wouldn’t you?)

To the New York Knicks, a trip back to relevance, but still no championship.

To the New Jersey Nets, four future first-round draft picks that still won't get you Carmelo.

To Eli Manning, sliding lessons.

To Vince Young, a new coach, a new team and a new attitude.

To David Stern, the intelligence and guts to contract eight teams so that your sport will be enjoyable again for all cities again and not just the four cities that have a legitimate shot at winning a championship.

To Brett Favre, a rocking chair ... with arm and leg straps on it to keep him in it.

To the New Orleans Saints, the “S” placed back at the beginning of their name after decades of futility. (That one arrived early thanks to Air Favre’s shipping service.)

To Cam Newton, a better business manager than his father.

To Greg Oden, an NBA career ... maybe, someday.

To the Portland Trail Blazers -- another chance to pick Kevin Durant instead.

To Yao Ming, new legs.

To Allen Iverson, “The Answer” -- and that is ... retire.

To Cortland Finnegan, some humble pie.

To the Metrodome, a better balloon roof.

To Shaquille O’Neal, a.k.a. "Tip-In O’Neal" or "The Big Shamrock," a final ring with Boston, giving him as many as Kobe, and enshrinement in the Great Personalities of Sports Hall of Fame.

To Donovan McNabb, some respect and a starting job for a full season with a new team.

To Tom Brady ... nothing. You have everything already ... All right, you win. Another Super Bowl ring!

To TCU, a big hug. It’s a small consolation, but the best I could do.

To Peyton Manning, some personnel consistency, fer cryin’ out loud!

To “The T.Ocho Show,” a second season, this time in the jungles of Africa mixing “Survivor”-type excitement with you two talking for a half-hour.

To the UConn Lady Huskies, a loss already, it’s getting boring.

To Geno Auriemma, some updated stereotypes about women.

To Brian Wilson, anything you want. Quite frankly, you frighten Santa.

To Jerry Jones, a team in the Super Bowl! (In other words, one share of stock in the Atlanta Falcons.)

To Tiger Woods, just a little bit of the mojo you used to have.

To Coach John Wooden, a team in heaven.

Enjoy your presents, everyone! And may I wish all of you a very happy and healthy holiday season. Thanks for reading and see you in the 2011, for a full slate of major league baseball and ... well, with labor disagreement looming, that’s about it! Ho Ho Ho! Green Giant!

Trying to figure out my next blog to write, I looked at the calendar and realized that this week marks my one-year anniversary here at SportsFanLive. (No, please, I don’t want any gifts; your readership is enough. Besides, what would I do with a second horse’s head to go along with the one a Raiders fan sent me after one of my previous blogs?)

So much has happened in the world of sports over this time that I thought I’d take this opportunity, if you’ll indulge me, to recap the events I’ve blogged about during the past year. (If not, that’s fine too. Just reading to this point has allowed my computer virus enough time to access all your personal files and send them to me. So your readership and all your confidential information is enough.)

In order to remain consistent with engaging content, I’ve been fortunate enough to have a supportive leadership team at the website, a slew of fascinating stories to follow, but mainly, it’s been the fans who have been my rock, my Dwayne Johnson, if you will.

Yes, it is you, the reader, who have been so kind to me over the past year and I am so grateful. Your comments let me know you care. Rest assured, I read them all and please know that the comments about my mother and the female body parts that I resemble have been much appreciated. Sports and the opinions associated with it should never be treated flippantly and demand an overly critical eye toward the subjective.

I cherish our relationship. It’s because I feel so close to you that I’ve trusted you enough to bare my soul. (Or is it bear my soul? What does that even mean? Is that where Brian Urlacher tackles my celestial inner being?) For instance, I came out to you in this, the most public forum, in announcing my love for Peyton Manning, which screamed in opposition to my positive feelings for Bill Belichick. I didn’t care who knew it.

I relived a most painful experience of my being picked off second base by the hidden ball trick in what was actually a balk. So instead of third base, I was forced to sit on the pine, a most heinous crime perpetuated upon me by “the ill-informed.” Even now, it still makes me well up, but I felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable in front of you all.

I shared the tale of my day sitting amongst Raider Nation at San Diego’s Qualcomm Stadium. Instead of finding them dangerous as I had expected, I was surprised to learn that they’re nothing more than really very scary people who you don’t want to look in the eyes.

Yes, we’ve been through quite a 12-month period together, haven’t we? We’ve witnessed some incredible events like an entire tournament of curling, each time alternatively wondering why we were watching and making plans to take up curling with the goal of participating in the 2014 Winter Games in Russia; we watched the World Cup, longing for the excitement of curling; we watched a five-set tennis match that lasted longer than the Orioles season before being mathematically eliminated from playoff contention; we saw the best heavyweight battle we’ve seen in years in the McCourt v. McCourt fight (they’re talking sequel); and we saw a 28-out perfect game, which is most definitely once in a lifetime!

And we laughed together too. Remember when Mercury Morris tried to act relevant, like his 1972 Dolphins team’s 17 consecutive wins still meant something even though teams like the Patriots and Colts surpass it routinely? Or when the Philadelphia Phillies fan outran the guy with the Taser gun ... for a few seconds?

And then there was the time Mark McGwire told us he did steroids, as if it was a big reveal akin to the “Sixth Sense” or “The Usual Suspects.” Instead, it came off with all the suspense of an ESPN special to announce where Brian Scalabrine is going to end up playing next year.

This year was not without life lessons as well, like the fact that men entering Yankee Stadium are forced to check their bags across the street for $7, but then can literally climb into a woman’s purse or duffel bag and be smuggled into the park without even a suspicious glance.

We also learned that Big Papi doesn’t ask what’s in his “protein shakes” and Manny likes to get in touch with his feminine side with a cycle of drugs for women.

Oh, and we also learned that it was Derek Jeter that was leaking the names of those players on the infamous steroid user list. (Disclaimer: I’m the one that started that rumor.) (Disclaimer on the disclaimer: Or did I?)

But one giant lesson that we learned from Tiger Woods was that if you’re going to cheat, don’t text. Remember, texters never win and winners never text.

Though I can’t blame him for his mistake, for I’ve made mistakes too. For instance, I thought there was no way the Lakers and Celtics would’ve been able to “flip a switch” and start playing well through the playoffs after coasting through the end of the season. Well, like Arthur Fonzarelli, I am more than man enough to admit when I was wr--, when I was wrooo--, when I was wrrrrrrrrr--; well, nobody’s perfect.

And speaking of the Lakers, their fans were the focus of most of my attacks this year, but only because – well, they’re still around. I must apologize. I had originally planned for them to get all of my attacks. I promise that I will do better next year.

To all of you who’ve enjoyed a year of blogs, thanks for reading. And to you Lakers fans out there, thanks for finding someone to read this to you, explaining all the big words.

(See, never let it be said that I don’t keep a promise.)

A lot of you may have read or witnessed the abridged version of the Tiger apology, but here is the unabridged version of his original speech, featuring text that went unsaid:

From Pointe Vedra Beach, Fla.

Good morning and thank you for joining me. Many of you in this room are my friends. Many of you in this room know me. Many of you watching at home have received texts from me, but I am not going to mention that here. Now every one of you has good reason to be critical of me.

I want to say to each of you, simply and directly, [deep breath] I am deeply sorry for my irresponsible and selfish behavior, regardless of how naughty it was ... and it really was naughty, especially with the event planner in Florida; she knows what we did -- er, uh, selfish behavior that I engaged in.

I know people want to find out how I can be so selfish and so foolish. But I mean, come on. I’m Tiger. Duh. But my obvious greatness aside, while I have always tried to be a private person, there are some things I want to say.

Elin and I have started the process of discussing the damage caused by my behavior. As Elin pointed out to me, my real apology to her will not come in the form of words. It will come from my behavior over time ... and a payment plan that includes incentive bonuses for each month she stays with me.

I am also aware the pain that my behavior has caused to those of you in this room. I have let you down. I have let down my fans. But most importantly, I have let down my sponsors. There are tens of millions of reasons I beg for your forgiveness.

But still, I know I have bitterly disappointed all of you. I have made you question who I am and how I could have done the things I did. Again ... I’m Tiger [expletive deleted] Woods. Now ask the question one more time and see if you can’t come up with the answer.

I have a lot to atone for, but there’s one issue I really want to discuss – frequent flyer tickets.

I spend a lot of money racking up flyer points with Delta, but then when I go to use my points for a free flight, these seats are unavailable because they’ve given them away to people that have flown partner airlines. I mean, what is that?! I’m loyal to you and you give the freebie seats to someone else? I should buy your crummy airline and fire the lot of you.

But I digress. [sigh] Some people have speculated that Elin somehow hurt or attacked me on Thanksgiving Night. It angers me that people would fabricate a story like that.

Elin never hit me that night or any other night. There has never been an episode of domestic violence in our marriage ... at night. EVER! ... at night.

Elin has shown enormous grace and poise throughout this ordeal. Elin deserves praise, not blame. [leans into microphone, whispers] Though if anything ever happens to me, you’ll know where to look. She’s really freakishly strong and has a dark side.

I knew my actions were wrong, but I convinced myself that normal rules didn’t apply. I never thought about who I was hurting. Instead, I thought only about myself ... Tiger Woods ... the most popular athlete in the world. Seriously, put yourself in my position. No brainer, right?

[strange, disapproving woman looks at Tiger’s mom who seems to be asleep with contempt, then back to Tiger]

I ran straight through the boundaries that a married couple should live by, not to mention the tree outside my estate with my Escalade. I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy

all the temptations around me. And boy, did I enjoy them.

But I don’t get to play by different rules. The same boundaries that apply to everyone apply to me ... Tiger Woods ... the greatest golfer in the world.

I hurt my wife, my kids, my mother, my wife’s family, my friends, my foundation, kids all around the world who admired me, and one special lady I hooked up with after a tournament at Pebble Beach. Well, I was trying this maneuver I like to call “dog leg left” and there was a slight tremor from a nearby fault line. I refuse to elaborate on this any further, other than to say she’s okay and recovering comfortably at her home.

It’s up to me to start living a life of integrity. And that starts by never repeating the mistakes I’ve made. Therefore, I have called Verizon to have my texting plan discontinued as a show of faith and to save some of the money I’ve missed out on from lost endorsements.

As I proceed, I understand people have questions, I understand the press wants to ask me for the details of the times I was unfaithful. I understand people want to know whether Elin and I will remain together.

Please know that as far as I’m concerned, every one of these questions and answers is a matter between Elin and me. These are issues between a husband and his wife and his daily blog, tigersmaritalstrife.blogspot.com

Some people have made up things that never happened. They say I used PEDs. This is completely and utterly false; at least until some rock solid proof is uncovered at which point I will hold another press conference and grant an interview to Katie Couric.

My behavior doesn’t make it right for the media to follow my 2½-year-old daughter to school and to report its location. How would you guys like it if I followed your kids to school and took pictures of them and blew them up to lifesize, then cut out the head and pasted it to a blow up doll which I danced around my bedroom with in my underwear to a Michael Bublé song?

It’s kinda creepy, right? So knock it off.

People probably don’t realize it, but I was raised a Buddhist and I actively practiced my faith from childhood until I drifted away from it in recent years. Buddhism teaches that a craving for things outside ourselves causes an unhappy and pointless search for security.

Obviously, I lost track of what I was taught. As I move forward, I would continue to receive help, because I’ve learned that’s how people really do change.

Starting tomorrow, I will leave for a Tibetan monastery where I will spend my days deprived of creature comforts learning the ways of the monks. I am giving up my fortune and place in this material world. [long pause] Nah, just playin’. I’m off to some more sex therapy.

I do plan to return to golf one day, but I just don’t know when that day will be. I don’t rule out that it will be this year. So let the Vegas pool begin!

I want to thank the PGA tour, Commissioner Finchem, the players, and most of all, my sponsors, both former and current ... and former sponsors who will be my future sponsors – [aside] we can talk – for their patience and understanding while I work on my private life.

Finally, there are many people in this room and there are many people at home who believed in me, including one poor soul, unfortunate enough to stumble during the “dog leg left” incident. Today, I want to ask for your help. I ask you to find room in your heart to one day believe in me again. And to my sponsors, you know where to reach me.

Thank you.

[hugs mom, holding her for a minute and a half]

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Personally, I think Tiger did well to adapt his original speech for the words he said, but the only thing I found curious was how a guy who always looks like he’s about to cry, didn’t cry. Just a thought. I wish Tiger well with his rebuilding his marriage and career.]

Mark McGwire, you’ve come out and said that you used steroids. Well, you’ll excuse me if I don’t believe you, Big Mac. I mean, up until recently, you said you didn’t use them.

You’re telling me that for years, almost a decade of speculation, you were lying to us and only for the past few days, you’re telling the truth? You’re saying that the whole “I don’t want to go into the past” thing was something you thought would help your case if you were really a user? You’re saying the Cardinals would hire a hitting coach who was only hitting as well as he did because of an illegal substance? Yeah, right. I don’t think so.

Sounds like you’re just trying to jump on the “Apology Tour” bandwagon. It’s a great scam. I can’t blame you. It gets you national exposure, whether it’s a seat with Katie Couric or Oprah; a shot at the Hall of Fame; perhaps some more endorsement deals after a brief interruption as “outraged” sponsors pull back; and the potential for book deals and speaking engagements as a “reformed” user.

It’s worked for Kobe, A-Rod, and will work for Tiger. You were wise to give this a shot.

But your whole explanation needs work. Did you really expect us to believe you when you said you only used performance-enhancers to get back on the field, even though that would mean you kept breaking down because you were using them? Ha! I did a classic spit take when I read that, which was embarrassing because I was sitting in the barber chair at the time. (I’m going to have to find a new barber as he was none too pleased.)

I mean, you are, after all, a college graduate. You must’ve known this statement would raise some red flags.

Tony La Russa never thought you were on steroids. He just thought you worked harder than anyone else, as if pushed beyond one’s human capabilities by unnatural means. The man’s a genius.

Of course, I am always skeptical of La Russa since the man separates his name. What’s going on there? Is “La” his middle name? Was there a mix up in the hospital’s maternity ward as there was with former Houston Oilers wideout Haywood Jeffires, pronounced Jeffries?

Mark, we watched your career. We know you had good years and bad years. It’s quite reasonable to assume that your best years yielded more home runs than anyone before you ... two years in a row. What’s not mentioned by the media is how pitchers wanted to surrender tape measure blasts to you. They wanted their name associated with you, the home run champ.

It is feasible to think you could have taken something as they were pretty prevalent in baseball during his career, but if you’re gonna spend a decade planning your defense, do a little research first.

For instance, you now say you took steroids, but they didn’t enhance your home run power. See, if you truly had taken them, you would’ve seen a marked (pardon the pun, if there is one) improvement in your numbers. You probably could’ve hit 80 or 90 in 1998. That would’ve given the American public quite a thrilling race to witness. In fact, you should be apologizing to us for missing this golden opportunity to really set the bar.

And blaming the “Steroid Era.” C’mon, Mark, that doesn’t wash, baby! By the timeline of your career and chronology of events, it was only the Steroid Era because of your now self-admitted use. You would have been the trend setter.

Finally, I think the most pointed flaw to your story is Jose Canseco’s report that he personally injected you with steroids. We all know that Canseco is a no-good liar, out to make a quick buck. He lies more than the imported Persian rug in your foyer purchased with money you earned using your God-given, natural ability. (Well, except for the stuff he’s said that’s turned out to be absolutely true.) So you can’t believe him.

Steroids did not enhance your home run power. You were given that gift by “the man upstairs,” as you said, who we can assume is God, unless you literally owned a condo underneath Victor Conte’s place, which would change things.

With all your contradictions, however, I know you’re as innocent today as you were in 2005 when you sat in front of Congress and translated English for Sammy Sosa. And you can rest assured that if I had a vote for the Hall of Fame, I still wouldn’t vote for you, not based on any one thing you did or didn’t do, but because I really think you were a one-note player. (Hey, if it makes you feel better, I’m not voting for Dave Kingman or Greg Lusinski either.)

After rigorously defending the fact that the decade has one more year in it, I have nonetheless decided to abandon my cause and write my End of the Decade blog. (Expect another one next year.)

Though for the record, decades end in 10. Let’s review the facts: When the Julian and Gregorian calendars switched over to Anno Domini – or Adrian Dantley as is the English translation – they did so at Year One. There was no Year Zero. Hence, the first new year’s celebration was January 1, 0001. And ten years later less one day, the decade ended on December 31, 0010. So we’re jumping the gun a little bit.

Although on the surface, it seems an inconsequential argument, but look closer to witness its necessity in navigating the all-too-important matter of how many championships the New York Yankees have won this decade in comparison with the total for the Boston Red Sox. As things currently stand, the tally is Boston, 2 – Yankees, 1. (Argue this fact if you will, but as we know, the Julians and Gregorians were never wrong ... except for that whole overreaching of the Roman Empire thing ... and probably also for betting long on the Latin language instead of short selling it.)

Anyway, it’s still been nine years since the last time we looked back a ways, so it got me thinking that I should open up my time capsule (a “Welcome Back, Kotter” lunch box in the back of my closet) to look at what I said about the impending “oughts.” Here’s the letter I wrote and stashed away on December 31, 2000 (the end of the 90’s, according to the early Italians):

12/31/2000
Dear Self,

Hey, how’s it going? Are you over Becky Lantana yet? Boy, you really screwed that one up, didn’t you?

Okay, enough small talk. I really didn’t think we’d make it through the decade. I mean, how many times can one person watch the Yankees win the World Series without taking his own life in the most disgusting manner possible? It’s just not fair! Spread the wealth a little bit, huh? The Red Sox and Cubs and White Sox haven’t won in over 80 years. You would think that at least one of them could win, even if only by accident!

(Though I’m not sure, but some of those Yankees looked to be on some sort of chemical substance that helps athletes perform at a higher level unnaturally. Hmm, well, I’m sure I’m just being paranoid. The increase in offense can most likely be attributed to better training and keeping the baseballs in a humidor.)

Seriously, I can’t take it anymore! For the sake of my health and my sanity, I am hereby renouncing my allegiance to the Red Sox. I know that I do that every year, but this time, I mean it! What more do I have to give? How can one fan be so unlucky?

[Disclaimer: In the event of an ownership change and comeback from 3-0 playoff series deficit, all claims, decrees, and statements regarding allegiances are to be rendered null and void.]

Look at my track record: I follow the Red Sox – 82 years without a title. Oh, but hey, they always make sure to get our hopes up before dashing them, so that's nice.

Then there’s the Patriots – oh, that’s a real treat. They make the Super Bowl only as a punching bag for the eventual winners. And they hired a guy who resigned as head coach of the New York Jets at his introduction press conference! Oh, yeah, that instills confidence. I give him two years, tops! And didn’t this guy fail in Cleveland?

I will admit, I don’t know what the Celtics are doing these days since I won’t watch current games, but choose to pop in old videotapes of the "Big Three" from the 80’s into my VCR instead. I wish there were some channel on television that showed classic sports events from the past just to protect me from having to witness such a monumental fall from greatness.

Oh, and lest I forget, the one chance I had to pick a team on my own, one that would be mine through thick and thin – I was born in Boston so I was forced into that family – I had to go out and accept Syracuse University’s offer to attend college there. And what happened the night I sent them my enrollment letter? They become the first No. 2 seed to lose to a No. 15 seed in the NCAA tournament. If that’s not a bad sign, I don’t know what is.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m considering going to grad school just to have another team to root for. Maybe I’ll go to Notre Dame. They’re a lock to be great every year!

Aside from my own miserable fortune, there are some things around the sports landscape that have caught my eye. For instance, I’ve been very impressed with Tiger Woods. I mean, this guy is perfect at everything. Does he have any flaw at all? If he does, I’m sure we’ll never see it ... on the golf course, at least.

On the tennis courts, I enjoyed watching Agassi play his guts out in the last few tournaments, especially during his Australian Open win over Yegev -- Yevgev -- Yagenvy – uh, over Kafelnikov. Andre was amazing! He played like a meth addict out there.

And I think now that the Rams have won in St. Louis, it would be hilarious if the Baltimore Ravens would win the Super Bowl. (Take that Los Angeles and Cleveland!) But they’ve got Trent Dilfer at quarterback and we all know from last year that offense ... wins ... championships!

Not that I’m big into the whole college football scene, but I gotta say that this BCS system really seems to be taking hold. I think the powers that be finally got things right. I love the fact that virtually any team with a reasonably decent record can claim a share of the national title.

All right, that’s all I got. Enjoy New Year’s Eve in this hopeless town with hopeless teams. Just remember, tomorrow is another year and with it, more hope for a positive outcome. You know what they say, “You can’t spell hopeless, without hope.” (Or is it “Hope is halfway to hopeless?”)

Oh, and give it a couple of months. Maybe Becky will forget what you did.

Yours truly,

You

J.W., this pitch is hot! And I wanted you to get first crack at it. All the other studios were begging me -- BEGGING ME -- to pitch it to them first, but I said, “NO! Not until I let the man who built this industry into what it is today hear it first.” And that’s you, J-dub ... Oh, I see you have some top-shelf brandy over here. Mind if I? ... Thanks.

So picture this, our story begins in a gated community in central Florida. It’s hot. But not the kind of hot you turn the air conditioning on for.

Cut to: A man. Collared shirt, ball cap, pleated pants and cleats, all crisp and new. He steps out of his black Escalade. He’s perfect. Almost too perfect.

Muffled arguments heard behind sliding glass doors in the night. Suddenly, a car engine roars, the squeal of tires, acceleration and then -- CRASH!!! An abrupt stop not three seconds after acceleration.

Car totaled, airbag deployed, driver groggy. But wait! Through the spewing water of the damaged hydrant comes a figure, an angel. No, she’s angry! She has a golf club -- a 3-iron, maybe a pitching wedge ... or a putter. Something metal.

She’s 5’0” if she’s an inch, maybe 100 pounds tops. And she raises the club to the sky and starts hacking at the back window like John Henry driving steel. Once, twice, three times! Glass sprays from the vehicle under the brute strength of this slight, Nordic goddess.

Knocking the remaining shards away so as not to damage her flawless alabaster skin, she crawls into the back and disappears. There’s no light. There’s no sound. It was as if she got sucked into a black hole.

After what seems like an eternity, she reemerges, pulling the semi-conscious man, her husband, the vision of perfection we’ve come to know, from the back seat and tossing him over her shoulder with the same ease she did the golf club. She places him carefully on the ground and they make love.

But no, that’s not what happened at all!

Am I losing you, J.W.? ... Oh, yeah, that is a funny billboard outside the window across the street ... Anyway, here’s where it gets good.

He holds a press conference to say nothing’s happened. He lashes out at all those that bandied about ludicrous claims and asks for the media to respect his privacy, which they do in round-the-clock coverage from his front lawn.

The cops arrive. But he won’t talk. “You can’t make me talk, copper!” he says brazenly. He’s protecting the woman he loves. But which woman is that?

Cut to: Interior -- a Perkins restaurant. A girl serves an elderly man a bowl of vanilla pudding. It's 4 p.m. and dessert is included in the early bird special. The elderly man thanks her and she smiles, but we can tell her mind is elsewhere. On our hero, perhaps?

Back in Florida, without a lead and about to give up on the case, the dam bursts wide open. Police uncover text messages from one girl, a nightclub promoter.

Scrambling, our hero calls her to stop the flow of incriminating evidence, but it’s too late. And that call is the final nail in his coffin as the girl has recorded it and sells it to the 6 o’clock news for a lifetime subscription to US magazine and a $200 gift certificate to a neighborhood pilates studio. They’ve got him dead to rights asking her to take her name off her phone.

What of his wife, the woman we saw earlier saving his life after the car accident? A lawyer counsels her. She begins looking through very expensive jewelry catalogs. Her mother shows up from Sweden, wearing clogs and one of those hats you’d see on Pippi Longstocking. She announces she’s staying to see her daughter through this terrible ordeal.

All settles down and then, the night air is cut again, this time with the sound of a siren. It’s an ambulance. The same house. A lady is taken on a gurney. She needs the jaws of life. We can't see who she is. The ambulance speeds away.

And then, an Escalade, similar to the one before, but this one is in mint condition ...

What’s that? ... Well, they could own two of the same car ... Yeah, I suppose it could be a loaner for the damaged one ... Y’know, let’s just make it an Isuzu Tracker ... with tinted windows. We can’t see in. But we catch a glimpse through the front windshield.

It’s her! Our golden bombshell from before. But is it her? For she has a twin sister!

But it is her and not her twin ... or were you thinking it was the twin? We can make it the twin if you want ... No?

Okay, so they’re trying to resuscitate the woman as they're doing 95 along I-95 -- (have you ever wondered, J.W., what would happen if the speed limits were actually equal to the route numbers? ... Future script idea: “Speed Demons on Route 293”) -- they’re driving along trying to resuscitate her, but strangely, our hero, Mr. Perfect, isn’t there.

He’s at home, alone, pining ... pining ... pining. He holds a picture, but not of his wife.

Smash cut to: a seedy bar in another city. A woman, the one from the picture, leaves the bar and walks next door to the National Enquirer building. She’s crying. She holds documents, photos of her with him, and tape recordings as she whispers, “Oh, baby, I hope we can still be friends after this.”

Back to the hospital. It’s a media circus. And then word trickles out that the patient was, in fact, the mother-in-law. She heard that her son-in-law was cheating and her heart couldn’t take it anymore.

Will she survive or won’t she? Doctors tell our blonde heroine there’s a 50/50 chance of survival, but only a 10 percent chance of those odds being accurate.

She’s distraught. All the while, Mr. Perfect’s sponsors are leaving him in droves. He begs them, pleads with them. “I’m not perfect!” he screams. But it’s too late. They’re gone. He cries so passionately that he exhausts himself and passes out in front of his house under the tree he hit with his car. He wears his cleats and collared shirt, but no pants.

We pull back into the dark night air and slowly dissolve to this guy as a youth, 3 years old, thwacking a plastic golf ball with a plastic Fisher Price golf club in his backyard as his father looks on. His father wears no pants. Fade to black.

What do you say, J.W.? ... What do you mean it’s too far fetched? And George Clooney playing Batman wasn’t? Fine.

I happen to have another gem, this one even better, that I want you to be the first to hear. An incredibly gifted NFL quarterback and successful pitchman wins 26 straight regular-season games. He enters the playoffs and everything is going great until ...

As I was sitting here trying to decide if the best club to use in attacking your husband is, in fact, a 3-iron (I would’ve suggested the sand wedge to Mrs. Woods for more lift), I thought I’d take this opportunity to make a plea to the powers that be asking that they install regulations preventing the media and talking heads from using idiotic phrases that insult us as an audience. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t take it anymore.

This first one has been bugging me since A-Rod returned to the Yankees line-up this past spring. One of the play-by-play announcers doing an NBA game teased us with this gem: “Coming up at halftime, you’ll never guess what A-Rod did in his first at-bat today.”

Uh, he hit a home run?

He’s a power-hitter. That’s what he does. He hits home runs. Not really a stretch there. Now, if it turned out that A-Rod had gone up to bat sucking his thumb, then galloped around the field using the bat as a horsie, then no, I would never have guessed that.

We’ve seen a lot during our decades of televised sports. Not a whole lot is going to surprise us. A home run in his first at-bat? Pretty common, actually. Give us some credit, will you please?

Speaking of which, the word “unbelievable” needs to be outlawed. “He threw the ball up and over the backboard right into the hoop! Unbelievable!” You mean like Larry Bird and Isiah Thomas and Kobe Bryant, etc. have done?

It’s difficult, yes, but I believe it can happen. Like Inigo Montoya said in “The Princess Bride” when Vezzini claims it’s inconceivable to find the Dread Pirate Roberts continuing to climb even after the rope had been cut – “I do not think that word means what you think it means.”

And in similar fashion to “Unbelievable!” this term “breaks out of his slump,” used far too often in baseball.

For lack of more foresight, broadcasters revel at the opportunity to use this trite little idiom, which is embarrassing because it shows they don’t quite know what a slump is. A batter is mired in a slump. Let’s say he has one hit in his last 30 at-bats. Then he goes 3-for-4 in one particular game. Announcers are quick to pounce! “Well, he broke out of his slump today.”

Do you think his agent is going to be as quick to mention this week’s sampling when it comes to negotiating the player’s next contract? “Remember when he went on that tear and raised his average from .033 all the way up to .117? That’s a guy you need on your team.” Might I suggest using the phrase, “he’s sucking less than he was” instead?

How about doing away with anything relating to “Keys to the game”?

Do we need to see this? There really is only one key to the game and that is scoring more than your opponent does. By the time you’ve posted two or three things that could possibly transpire, we’ve already forgotten what you’ve said because the exact opposite has already occurred.

Darren Woodson spouted this a few weeks ago on an NFL segment – “The Patriots need to protect Tom Brady in order to win this week.” Is this as opposed to “The key for the Patriots this week is to let the other team sack Brady as much as possible. If they can allow 20 or more sacks, they should pull this one out.”

Over 10 percent unemployment and he has a job?! Can’t Nancy Pelosi introduce a bill on the floor of the House that suspends him from work until he can say something the foreign-speaking cab driver can’t come up with?

Though it’s actually not as bad as what’s said during such as, “That man is a football player.”

This is also known as pulling a Madden. Fortunately, with Big John retired, Dan Dierdorf has taken to using this one for Dierdorf is the new Madden, only without the insight and amusing speech patterns and likeability.

So wait, you’re telling me that the big guy down there on the field in the middle of a football game wearing all those pads and helmet, slinging the – what do you call that? a football? – slinging the football is a football player? I tend to doubt that. I believe, and I’m not the expert you are, that the man to whom you are referring is what’s called an actuary.

Ha! Football player. Yeah, sure.

There’s no question about it, that’s a dumb statement, but coming pretty close is the phrase “no question about it.”

I like to pass the time while I’m watching sports highlights and commentary by myself by playing a little drinking game. ([sigh] I’m so lonely.) Every time someone answers a question with the phrase, “Well, no question about it?” you drink. I tell you, if you want to get blotto in no time, this is the game for you. I frequently end up passed out in a puddle of my own drool until the rooster outside my window starts crowing. (I still regret getting the only apartment in the city with a landlord that owns a rooster.) And the sad part is that the TV is still on Sportscenter, which runs on a continuous loop throughout the evening so I have to play the game all over again.

“We bring in our ‘resident expert’ to ask him, a man who’s never ever met Joe Flacco, is Flacco nervous about facing the vaunted Pittsburgh Steelers defense today?”

“Oh, no question about it.”

Okay, stop right there! First off, I was watching. The man was talking before you asked a question! It had all the elements of a question – the open-endedness of the words, the slight pitching up of the voice at the end, the question mark at the end, ... the reason we brought you in in the first place!

How about if this happened: “Oh, no question about it.”

“Great, so you’re useless then ... Let’s go out to Mongo on the field and ask him the same question. Maybe we’ll get an answer this time.”

There’s one last thing I’d like to see done away with and that is the “guarantee.”

“I guarantee a win for the Nuggets against the Lakers.”

Blockbuster used to guarantee their popular new releases would be stocked on the shelves for you to enjoy. However, if they weren’t, they offered a free movie or something like that.

Think about that. They guaranteed it would be there. And it’s not. So it’s not exactly a successful guarantee.

You can’t guarantee something that’s out of your control. You can, however, guarantee something like, if the Nuggets lose to the Lakers, I will stick salt-water taffy up my nose right here at the news desk.

That will be an exception to the ban.

So I understand the implementation of these rules might severely curb my inebriating past time, but perhaps I’ll just have to find different criteria to play such as taking a drink each time Eric Mangini switches his quarterback or Rasheed Wallace gets a technical foul or Mercury Morris acts like he’s still relevant.

Hmm. Looks like I’ve got to make a run to the liquor store.