Super Bowl XXXVIII has arrived, and we’re still keeping track. Never are the masses, including Deion Sanders (especially Deion Sanders), more confused than during the Super Bowl fortnight.

If you’re wondering who’s playing, don’t worry about it. Keep adding up the Roman numerals.

The wonderful city of Miami will be hosting this year’s Super Bowl and…what’s that? It’s in Houston? Houston? Why? For the love of Jake Delhomme, why?

In one of the greatest injustices since my roommates pretended to be good people in hopes of conning me into living with them, Michael Wilbon of “Pardon the Interruption” placed Patriot QB Tom Brady in the same sentence as Joe Montana. In a related story, I’ve requested a warrant be put out for my own arrest.

Did anybody else get an eerie feeling when Tom Brady was shown at the State of the Union? Will somebody please tell him that the PATRIOT Act is not a proposal for better football facilities in New England.
I don’t want to get too evangelistic on everyone, but I sense that God wants me to gamble on the game, and if I lose, to bear false witness about my winnings.

I suggest drinking before and after this Super Bowl, not during. Here’s why: redundant analysis and interviews make for fabulous drinking games (hint: sip for “the key will be the running game,” gulp for “how are you feeling right now?” and waterfall for “Disneyland”).

Best part of the game: the annual Chris Farley award, aka the black sheep award given to the biggest goat of the game. Classic winners include Eugene Robinson who wins an award for moral character by day then solicits sex from an undercover police officer by night. Barret Robbins took it last year when on the day before the culmination of his career, he checked into a hospital for depression after downing some bad tequila. I’ve seen tougher kids at high school keggers.
In all honesty, Super Bowl XXXVIII will be like a bowl…of Grape Nuts. You’re going to start watching and then pull up lame and realize that the hype was just hype and the four quarters of dominant defense in front of you is impossible to stomach.

Much like the current SNL lineup, this year’s Super Bowl is desperately void of stars. At least the fat guy from “Kenan & Kel” is doing double duty and playing defensive end for Carolina.

Critics have been referring to Patriot Head Coach Bill Belichick as one of the more intelligent head coaches of our era, but if Belichick is so smart, why can’t I spell his name right? Think about it.

To Belichick’s credit, his defense made Peyton Manning, who had more inertia than a celibate pop star, look like the Buffalo Bills’ Frank Reich in their 1992 playoff collapse against the Houston Oilers.

The Humanitarian Bowl boasted more impressive quarterbacks than Super Bowl XXX… a-hem, 38. What has our society come to when Delhomme isn’t the name of a third-string NFL Europe quarterback licking dirt off the back of Jim Drunkenmiller’s helmet while taking coffee orders from He Hate Me, and, um…well you get the point.

As I wrote this, I saw a commercial for ESPN’s new morning show “Cold Pizza” featuring superfluous Super Bowl gossip, and the epiphanies came quicker than a freshman boy: I will never in my life be awake at 7 in the morning.

Carolina receiver Steve Smith referred to the “popcorn-eating haters” shunning the Panthers this week and I was shocked. I’m confident that most will agree that eating popcorn and facilitating hate are mutually exclusive.

Who’s playing on ACC Sunday Night Hoops?