These wild card games preemptive to the play-offs have been wildly entertaining. The book of expected winners is, indeed, being re-written.

With my N.Y. Giants not even close to the running, watching all the other wannabes self-destruct is something that I can comfortably witness. The Philadelphia Eagles: They’re out.

Better yet, the New England Patriots: They’re out.

An ever-abiding quality of sport in general, pro or prior to pro, is that , with time, dynasties falter. Presumed winners lose . Competition raises the level of performance. If it doesn’t, the team goes home.

This has been fun !


On to entertainment of a different color, a more sordid one at that.

They drip with elitism, with hypocrisy and self-seeking ostentation. They are pablum for the masses. What is “golden” about them remains unclear, however.

Oh! Now I get it. What is golden is the ceaseless parade of female presenters who have just outdone one another in their quest to show more “boob” than the next one. Artfully done, ladies. You have shed light on one the most profound truths to intrigue mankind for centuries: women have breasts.

At any rate, my dear wife tuned in with the masses last night and added, by a single notch, to the ratings of the show. I happened by and joined her momentarily.

Here was a surprise: it took more than three minutes before one of the vacuous, sparsely clad starlettes to begin spewing one of her painfully liberal talking points. Here I had no idea that the Golden Globe Awards doubled as a rally for the Democrat party.

Silly me for even stopping to watch. Good Night, Jude.


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