Up to the (Jeopardy) Challenge?

For the last two years, each January I take the Jeopardy on-line quiz. If you score high enough on the quiz, you may get selected to advance to the next phase of the qualifying process. Then again, you may not. The restrictions stated in the disclaimer on the Jeopardy website are so numerous they might as well pick future contestants randomly from various college alumni associations. Undaunted, I ignored the long odds, and tested last evening for the third consecutive year.

You may say to yourself, “It really takes a pompous ass to think they’re such a wellspring of knowledge that they have any shot of appearing on the show.” Those people obviously haven’t heard of American Idol. The motley collection of off key, tone deaf crooner wanna-bes, make even the most tin eared soul cringe. Personally, I’ve never seen a single episode. However, I’ve seen enough of the trailers to get a feel for the talent level of the thousands who audition and get the ol’ “Thanks for coming” after two or three notes. My presumptions for trying out for Jeopardy have a precedent. Four and half years ago, I made an appearance on Who Wants to be a Millionaire.
For many years I harbored a longing to appear on a game show. Jeopardy was always the one I thought I always had a shot at. When I was middle school age, unbeknownst to me at the time, I think my mother was trying to groom me to be a contestant. After dinner, and well into her cups, my mother would pull out The World Almanac and quiz me. She had seen how I could recall any statistic off the backs of baseball cards. Little did she know, any kid with an intense interest in baseball could duplicate this minor feat. My mother seemed to interpret this skill to mean I was blessed with some sort of low grade photographic memory. I humored her, like I frequently did when she was shithoused, and let her fire questions at me covering a wide array of topics. Occasionally I’d get one or two right by sheer luck. When I got a question wrong, my mother always seemed disappointed. She obviously hadn’t paid attention to the letters that filled the boxes of the report cards I brought home. Maybe she thought my grades were written in a secret cipher, leaving it up to her to decode as she saw fit.

By repetition alone, I started to retain some of the useless bullshit she pounded into my head. It served no real purpose except to settle bar bets and annoy others at cocktail parties. I never dreamt this plethora of brain cotton-candy would one day serve me well.

Later in life, even with my mother’s occasional nagging encouragement, I never had the balls to inquire as to how one got on a game show. My first real interest in attempting to qualify came, in a drunken stupor, right after Who Wants to be a Millionaire made its television debut. Regis Philbin was the host then. The program aired in the evening once a week. The show concluded with an announcement by some Don Pardo clone about becoming a contestant.

The process was simple, and if you passed, your name got put in the contestant pool. If your name was drawn, ABC would fly you to New York, put you up in a swanky hotel, and you’d get a chance to join nine others on stage to play “Fast Finger” for a chance to sit in the hot seat. All you had to do was play a phone version of “Fast Finger.” If you got all the questions right in the allotted time, you were in.
I made one attempt one evening while feeling quite a bit more lucid than usual. I pressed the wrong corresponding button on my touch tone phone. A pleasant recorded voice said “Thanks for playing. Try again tomorrow!” I think I said “Fuck you shitstain” to the pre-recorded phone voice. I vowed never to try to be a contestant on a game show ever again. What transpired was not of my doing.

In August of 2005, a couple purchased the townhome next to ours for the purpose of renting it to the husband’s elderly father. They were in the midst of refurbishing the place when the wife, after returning to their home in the next town, noticed an announcement in the paper declaring tryouts for Who Wants to be a Millionaire. The announcement was in The Sun-Sentinel, my wife and I get The Miami Herald; it contained no such notice, not that I’d be looking for one anyway. My days of game show aspirations (now that’s something to aspire to huh!?) were long behind me. The woman, Joanne, took time out of her life to cut out the article and make a special trip to our home to drop it off. She must have been acquainted with my mother in another life. I was out that evening. My wife Helen clued me in when I got home.
The tryout was to take place the next morning at nine o’clock at the Monarch Dodge dealership in Ft. Lauderdale. I was now in the master’s program in history at Florida Atlantic University. This required quite a bit of my time. The following day I had a paper due in The Historiography of the Modern Middle East. The period covered during the course was about two-thousand years. Trying out for a game show was not high on my priority list. I wanted to go sit in line with a bunch of self-professed know-it-alls about as much as I wanted to have a third eyeball implanted in my forehead; though like the worthless knowledge, that too may one day prove useful.

Helen and I discussed the prospect at length. I decided that since Joanne had gone out of her way to drop off the notice, I could be kind enough to go to this pseudo-intellectual clusterfuck. When I arrived at eight forty-five, there were already four-hundred people of all shapes and sizes waiting in line. I was wise enough to bring a stadium chair. I also brought my homework, and a Gatorade, which was a good thing since the temperature was already near ninety.

After taking my place in line, I was given a “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” refrigerator magnet with a number on the back. I was also given a questionnaire to fill out. Upon first inspection, the questions seemed rather inane. As I began to answer them, the questions struck me as ludicrous. It seemed as though the questions were worded to bait you into giving an asinine answer. I suspect to determine if you were “interesting” enough for the show, if you were lucky enough to get that far.
Twenty thousand people a year audition to become contestants. Only two hundred ever get to sit across from Meredith Viera, the show’s current host. My answers were not going to reach out and “grab” those involved in the filtering process. I guess my heart, as well as my head, wasn’t in it.

We were shuttled onto the showroom floor of dealership (a kind of human “this year’s models”) in groups of two hundred. We were handed two packets containing questions for two separate tests. One was general knowledge, the other movies, in conjunction with a Netflix promotion the show was running. The movie test came first.
We had ten minutes to answer thirty multiple guess questions. We’d be given the high sign when there was five minutes to go. Another warning when one minute remained. I used up most of the ten minutes, and surmised I got three wrong. Percentages indicate that if you guess on three questions, one is going to be right. The other twenty-six I knew the answers to. You know what you know, and you know what you don’t know, is precisely what I said to some mental giant who asked me how I did. It’s not brain surgery you know.

After some bullshit “entertainment,” we took the other test. Within three minutes I had completed my test confident that I knew every single answer. Whatever reservoir of information I did indeed have, I finally was able to tap into it. When the time came for the crew to announce who had passed and would move on to Phase Two, the number on the back of my little magnet was called.

Phase Two consisted of a Polaroid picture and an interview with a member of the show’s production staff. After some light, witty repartee, my interview went like this:
“Wade, by the answers you gave on the questionnaire, you didn’t strike us as a very interesting guy. But in person, you’re extremely interesting (a first for me!). So we’re going to include your name in the contestant pool. If your name is drawn in the next six months we’ll ask you to come to New York to be on the show. Congratulations!”
I said “Thanks.”

Six days later “Nate” called to say my name had been drawn, could I come to New York for a Labor Day shooting. The next day I received a card in the mail congratulating me on making into the contestant pool. I guess I wowed them during the interview part huh? What this meant to me, was I was going to have to cut class for the first time since my return to school. Let’s not forget those priorities!
Helen and I went to NYC, had a blast, won some money, and the rest they say is history; or at least a blog for another day. Will I be so fortunate again, who knows?

The first two times I took the Jeopardy Challenge, I think I got thirty-six of the fifty questions correct in the twelve minutes allotted, this time maybe a couple more. I think you probably need at least forty right to render consideration. If I am so lucky, I get to take another test down in Miami. If I pass that, there’s a mock show against two other qualifiers. If I get through that, I fly to L.A. on my own dime for another mock contest. You win that, you get on the show with that smug bastard Alex Trebek. (Doesn’t he act like he’d get all the answers right if he was playing?) That’s all there is to it!

Let’s not hold our collective breaths okay? My guess is I’ll be taking the test again next January. I’ll write another blog about it.

Belated

Every Wednesday, for sixty-eight weeks, I’ve unfailingly posted my blog. I’ve been ill, hospitalized, or out-of-town. None of these things have kept me from what I’ve come to believe as a responsibility to those that read it. I’d like to thank you both. What unforeseen calamity of such epic proportions could cause such a travesty? I was stupid enough to trust a representative of a major corporation.

In the past I have touched on the issue of customer service, the term, as well as the concept, that most large companies I’ve had the displeasure of doing business with, are unfamiliar. As the global marketplace has expanded, and with it the vast potential customer pool, the huge conglomerates that tell us what products we absolutely must purchase, and what services we must have, or our lives will be considered empty; don’t give one rats ass whether we buy their shit or not, because there’re millions more where we came from. Yet, these companies continue to spend kabillions of dollars on mindless ads that scream at us to BUY or we’re going to miss out. Miss out on what; I have yet to figure out.

Gone forever are the days of business people bending over backwards to try and satisfy their loyal clientele; not because the “customer’s always right,” but because it was the right thing to do. I have paid my penance as a customer service liaison, and I can assure you the customer is far from being always right. As a matter of fact, the customer is frequently a huge asshole. Nevertheless, as a representative of a business entity, it was my job to defuse the situation, and reach an amicable solution as quickly, and as painlessly (for both parties); my job depended on it. I was very good at what I did. Sadly, working in the automobile industry caused me so much brain damage, that I considered jumping off the roof of the tallest building in South Florida. That rocky marriage thankfully ended in 1997. A lot has changed since then; for the worse I might add.

I have always considered myself a bit of a consumer advocate. I think the real turning point as far as zealousness goes happened when in 1992, I appeared at a Long Valley, New Jersey town meeting to take Storrer Cable to task for their disregard to their own companies policies concerning providing service.
I did research before I went, and when my turn came, I made the Storrers rep back pedal, stammer, and have to defend his company’s unjust position in front of about fifty people. What I had to say sparked heated comments from others in attendance, while I sat back with a kind of smug self-satisfaction. The status quo did not change. Storrer went right on fucking over customers until they were good and ready to move forward with their plans. However, there’s an adage that says “You can’t fight City Hall.” There is also an addendum, “You can shit on their steps though.” I took great pleasure in shitting on Storrers’ steps. Such well earned psychic remuneration is hard to come by today.

My approach has always been pretty simple to grasp. I treat the situation as I would a debate; by using reason, prove to me how you arrived at the conclusions you did. If what is said is unreasonable, I proceed to point out the flaws in the argument presented. It the other party is obtuse, that’s when I spring into action.

I’m not going to go through my entire exhaustive process here. Also, I never ask for something I don’t deserve. No company is too big, no amount of time too consuming. Am I always successful? No. It works out to be about a fifty-fifty split. One of my greatest triumphs was versus the Sony Corporation, electronics division. I have the fifty-inch HD TV in my living room to prove it. Granted, it took twenty-five plus hours out of my life, and eight letters sent, one group to Japan, the other to Sony America’s California headquarters, to get satisfaction. But, I did get a new TV. Wednesday, I wasn’t so lucky.

This was not my first run-in with AT&T. Back when Cingular Wireless was just a subsidiary of the communications giant, I attempted on several occasions to consolidate the family account. When my wife Helen, and I decided it was time my son Cory, got a cellphone, all we wanted to do was add him to our account. That may sound like a simple procedure to dimwits like you and I, but to the big-brains at Cingular customer service, well, you’d have thought we asked them to verify Stephen Hawking’s String Theory of the Universe’s origins. After numerous calls, untold time on hold, and tons of aggravation, we decided to end the pursuit of this fruitless endeavor. We just kept paying for two separate accounts. It is to be noted that both accounts were paid out of the same checking account. That’s the caveat; Cingular had a hard time grasping this complex initiative.

A couple of years later, I received a call from their accounts receivable department wanting to know when I was planning to pay my cellphone bill that I had just paid.
I was on my way to a Saturday college football game on a glorious South Florida fall day. The moonroof was open, the windows were down, and the stereo was blaring. When my cellphone rang, I turned off the stereo, closed the roof and the windows, and this all important call while I was driving at approximately eighty miles per hour. When the “customer service stated the reason for his call, I wanted to throw my phone out the fucking window. I proceeded to tell him that the bill had been paid; in addition to reminding him that talking on the cellphone while driving had now replaced drunk driving as the number one cause of traffic accidents in America. Get this, he then told me that while one account showed a credit of over three-hundred dollars, the other account (the one that shouldn’t exist in the first place) was past due. Someone had applied the monies paid to the wrong account. Needless to say, the following Monday, Helen, Cory and I had a new cellphone service provider; a small victory.

The following week another customer service representative called to try to win our business back. She offered us, as the proverbial “valued customers,” fifty dollars as an enticement to return to Cingular.
Now, understand we were “bundle” customers. Our home phone service, internet service, and cellphone service were all within the BellSouth family, and had been for quite some time. When I calculated what our household had spent with BellSouth over the duration of our business relationship; the total was nearly ten thousand dollars. The fifty dollar offer was an insult. I told her the next time she went to buy a twenty-thousand dollar new car, and the salesman offers to take one-hundred dollars off the sticker price, she, being the shrewd negotiator that she is, should leap at this magnanimous offer, and be grateful for getting it. I really wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but I was being as professional as humanly possible, lest I be construed as belligerent and crass. Wednesday a new problem with AT&T reared its ugly head.

Feeling the financial crunch of late, I fell behind on my AT&T bill. I wasn’t thirty days behind mind you, just late. I received a notice that stating that if I didn’t pay the one-hundred and thirty-nine dollars and seventy-seven cents I owed by January the thirteenth, our services could be interrupted. Not wanting that inconvenience, I called on the twelfth to make payment arrangements.

The accounts receivable rep was kind, nice, and of good humor. I told her I could pay on January twentieth. She put me on hold, and when she returned, stated that would be fine. However she reminded me that she expected I honor this agreement. I told I would, and thanked her. She insured me that our agreement had been duly noted in her summery of our call.

On January twentieth, I went to log on my computer to pay AT&T; I was unable to do so. My service had been disconnected. My first call resulted badly. I got a customer service representative that was unclear what that job entailed. Her demeanor led me to believe she was a former rent-a-cop, one that exuded the “I’m in charge here” persona. Unabated, I called again. “Marshe” was quite accommodating, but had trouble getting my internet service turned on. She gave me a number where folks resided that- here came the words everyone dreads- could assist me further; they couldn’t. I tried tech support. They turned out to be as much help as jock support. And for an extra added bonus, got disconnected after forty minutes of being on hold.

Oh, periodically “Darlin” would come on the line to tell me he was “still working on it.” He was quite expert at that. I called back. I was told by this unempowered corporate serf that she would try to “expedite” my request since my scheduled restore date wouldn’t be for two days. After submitting said request, which was denied; she informed me that my scheduled service restore had been moved….to February the second. I did not curse, I did not threaten violence, I did not tell her my next step was to firebomb the local AT&T office in retribution. All I asked was to speak to a supervisor who told me…

…does any of this sound familiar to anyone? Okay, five hours later, and countless synapses lost, I remained in internet limbo. You can guess what happened yesterday. I called Comcast Internet. AT&T isn’t coming until February the second. Comcast will be here Wednesday morning; out with the old, in with the new.

Are you aware that it costs approximately four hundred dollars to gain a new customer? Why don’t companies spend a little to retain the ones they have? Why don’t they just try to act as though they want us? My answer is they just don’t give a shit. Keep paying stock holders an expected rate of rate, keep spending money frivolously coming up with new technology they can con us into buying, and keep giving mediocre service; we’re stupid enough to keep paying for it. Why fix it, good service doesn’t fuel the economy. These conglomerates are unaware it's becoming the economy.

Priorities

So many topics, so little space. Some newsworthy, some not. I could write about Mark McGuire’s long delayed admission, but I won’t. I could write about Sarah Palin getting her own show on Fox Network (who else?), but I won’t. Too bad too, I could have a field day with that one. What’s next, giving air time in the form of a talk show to a trained chimp that can sign? When I heard that news, the image of an esoteric, perverted version of Flowers for Algernon in reverse sprung to mind.

I could write about the fucking freezing (literally) weather we’ve been having in South Florida these past two weeks, but I won’t. People all over the country have experienced much worse, and they aren’t whining about it. I could write about my passion, baseball, and how MLB and the players union called out the Florida Marlins concerning their business practices. But why beat a dead horse? I’ve been suspicious about that franchise for quite some time now.

I could write about Lane Kiffin dissing Tennessee, and taking the head coaching job at USC. But just typing his name activates my gag reflex. However, I can’t wait to hear him put his foot in his mouth when he hates on Stanford, calling them a bunch of intellectual losers, or something along those lines.

I could write about the recent earthquake in Haiti; the first seismic activity on the island country in two-hundred years. Everybody’s shocked. I think the opposite reaction should’ve occurred. The more time passes, the more likely something will eventually happen, right?

For a variety of reasons, not one of these topics comes as a surprise to anyone. I shouldn’t have given this much attention to any of them. Last Friday I knew what I wanted to write about. None of the bullshit previously mentioned has changed anything one iota.

Many of you who read this have children. You talk about them when I see those who live in close proximity. For others, I see how you gush about them on Facebook. I sense the satisfaction of a job well done. The pride permeates every syllable, and justifiably so. Whether we realize it or not, our offspring are our greatest accomplishment. Who we think we are, or how we are perceived by others, is directly correlated to how our kids turned out. It doesn’t matter that he or she didn’t secure that Senate seat. It doesn’t matter that there have been brushes with the law. It doesn’t matter that they didn’t turn out exactly as we had planned. All that matters is that at one time or another, they’ve brought joy to varying degrees. And we adore them for it. We always will. That’s the best part about unconditional love. The joy may not be constant, but it always returns eventually.

We all want the same thing for our kids that most of our parents wanted for us; a better life than they had. It wasn’t going to come without some effort on our parts, as it should be for the next generation as well. So what do we do? We put a life plan in motion. We teach them to say “please” and “thank you” at the appropriate time; a part of the vernacular that’s slowly going the way of Latin. We arm our kids with a set of guidelines consisting of ethics and morals that serve as the fertile soil so they may one day reap the fruits of our labor.

My parents endured a drought the likes of which was last seen during the Dust Bowl era. I tried to correct that when my turn came. What I lacked was a plow. My child would be raised hydroponically. The results were what you’d imagine if you are at all familiar with hydroponics.

My son Cory, who some of you have come to know remotely through these weekly ramblings, celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday Sunday. He wasn’t terribly happy about it. I can only venture guesses as to why this milestone should cause any angst at all.

He’s made references to his “Silver Anniversary.” He’s got that feeling of “aging” that only youth can warp. He could intuit that his time as a student is drawing to close. He’s in no frame of mind to accept the notion that while one great adventure is ending, another is right around the corner. He may even feel that he can’t possibly top what he’s had the pleasure to experience this first quarter of a century. I’m grateful that the highs far outnumber the lows. And if his zest for life is any indication, the second twenty-five shouldn’t be any different.
When Cory was born, the term tabula rasa applied to both of us. He may have been a “blank slate;” up to that point in my life, I was more a “fill-in-the-blanks.” In addition, I was devoid of any inherent parental skills. All I knew was Cory didn’t ask to be here, and it was my duty to raise him to the best of my ability. Eventually it became my honor and privilege.

I spent a lot of time reading about child rearing. Some of what I read was a load of fluff and bullshit sociological and psychological theories. Most of what I did was extemporaneous; a lot was trial and error. I was, and still am, a big believer in post-natal exposure. I read to him out of the dictionary. I read Sports Illustrated to him long before this was depicted in Three Men and a Baby. We listened to music everyday. We watched the tape of the legendary Villanova-Georgetown NCAA Championship basketball game, trying to instill the “whole is greater than the sum of its parts” hypothesis.

We watched a lot of baseball, then I’d read a kid’s book. We’d watched football, and then read a kid’s book. We’d watched Bugs Bunny, then I’d read Cory articles out of Time magazine. All the while I’m carrying on a close personal relationship with Johnnie Walker, as well as imagining if Rockies were really as cold as advertised through my numerous samplings. We were a testament to the adage that “god watches out for drunks and little children.”

As each year passed, other mothers and fathers were always warning me that the luster of parenthood would soon wear off. When Cory turned two I heard, “Oh just wait until he does this, that, or the other thing” that was indicative for two year olds. This, that, or the other thing never materialized. When he turned three, four, five, and so on, it was always the same bullshit, and the result was always the same.
I will say, there was that two and half year period starting in seventh grade when I somehow turned into a real dick in his eyes, but that situation corrected itself by the each of his freshman year of high school. Every year since has brought new goals, new accomplishments, new respect for each other.

In Cory’s twenty-third year he received his undergraduate degree from the University of Florida where he had been attending on a full academic scholarship. I was fortunate enough to be seated on the aisle as he passed by me on his way to take his place on the stage with the other graduates. My thoughts turned to what I had accomplished by the time I was his age.

I had quit college once, and thrown out another. I had wrecked ten cars. I had a felony drug conviction. I had my first DUI. I had done a stint in jail. I had gambled away thousands. And here I was basking in the glow of my son’s achievement, secure in the knowledge I had something to do with him arriving at this point. Gives a man pause.

Cory has turned out to be the kid I envisioned him becoming before he celebrated his first birthday. Sunday he celebrated his twenty-fifth. Our relationship continues to grow. We have weathered all the warnings of naysayers concerning his teen years. Now that he is an adult, the admonitions come in the form of how we’ll become more and more estranged as Cory makes his own life. To those I say a resounding “Fuck you.”
I’m looking forward to each of the next twenty-five.

Taking a Pass

If you are a football fan, without question this is the best time of the year; a true sports junkie’s paradise. There are thirty-four college Bowl games which began on December 19th. The NFL saw the last playoff spots and pairings finalized the last weekend of the season. It’s been a season of highs and lows; the lowest coming these last two weeks, particularly in the NFL.

One only needs to look at the long layoff between the end of the regular season and the start of bowl play to understand the rash of upsets that have occurred. Many of the bowl results have indicated that the betting lines were set by picking arbitrary numbers out of a hat. Presumably shrewd football mavens were frequently so far off base that marginal teams looked like powerhouses, and powerhouses played as though this culmination to the season was instead, the culmination to spring practice.

It started with 10 ½ point underdog Wyoming beating offensive juggernaut Fresno State. The scorefest between undefeated TCU and undefeated Boise State never materialized, with underdog Boise prevailing 17-10. This game had an over/under line of fifty-four points. The only thing definitive to come out of this bowl mess was the supremacy of power conferences, and the false superiority of lesser supposed up-and-coming programs. Witness the 51-24 thrashing Florida gave higher ranked and previously undefeated Cincinnati. The game wasn’t as close as the score indicated. You can say these are the things many find so endearing about bowl games. Not so for the last couple of weeks in pro football.

If you haven’t been paying close attention, professional teams have tanked games. Some, it‘s been said, were for the good of the team. Three weeks ago there were two unbeaten teams, The Saints and the Colts. At last count, New Orleans has lost three in a row, Indianapolis two. The Colts stand behind the decision to “rest their starters” for the playoffs lessening the risk of injury. Yet, the starters played two quarters in both games. I didn’t realize you couldn’t get injured during the first half of games.

New Orleans, having already lost two in a row, rested Drew Brees, the most valuable player on their team, and one of the most productive quarterbacks in football. The Saints lost their third consecutive game.

The St. Louis Rams secured the first pick in the upcoming NFL Draft this April with a lethargic showing in their last game of the year. They wouldn’t have wanted to risk a tie with the Detroit Lions for worst record. The Rams remained in contention for most of the game. They were behind by the score of 7-3 after three quarters. Leaving nothing to chance, the Rams allowed twenty-one forth quarter points. In the most thought provoking case of them all, The Bengals at least had the good graces to rollover from the get-go.

Sunday night the Cincinnati Bengals played -if you could call it that- the New York Jets in the final game at Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands. They should have just called in a forfeit, but that would have been too obvious. Instead, the Bengals fielded a team that succumbed to the Jets 37-0. With the win, the Jets clinched the final playoff berth. The Bengals got the chance to play the Jets again this Sunday on the Bengals home field. Did the Bengals lose just to have the opportunity to face the Jets at home? I don’t think so, and neither did football analyst and former Bengal Cris Collinsworth.

Collinsworth was astute in his appraisal of what he was witnessing. I translate without all the political correctness. What Collinsworth alluded to was that perhaps the Bengals didn’t give their best effort to gain an advantage over the Jets. The Jets had to win to get into the playoffs, the Bengals did not. The Jets had to use every play in their repertoire on both offense and defense to win at all costs. Again, the Bengals did not. The Bengals could hold back on any defensive scheme, or offensive set that would benefit them with a more important game at stake; props to Collinsworth for his candor. I don’t know if I totally agree that the Bengals tanked the game, but I totally agree it’s possible. I’ll even go one step further.

In addition to the Bengals not having to tip their hand to the Jets when they know they would face them again; I say that they would rather face the Jets again. Had the Bengals won, it would have meant that their first round playoff opponent would have been the Houston Texans, who beat the New England Patriots to put themselves in position. The Texans needed a Jet loss.

The Texans already beat the Bengals earlier in the year at Paul Brown Stadium in Cincinnati. Why risk facing a team that trounced you when another could be had? Bengals lose, Jets win, and now the Jets travel to Cincinnati, and the Texans don’t reach the playoffs. Makes sense to me. Oh yeah, Jet fans don’t get too excited about seeing a replay of this past Sunday night.

I think the NFL frowns on this sort of thing, but they’ll never admit it. There’s too much money at stake. And let’s not be naïve, that’s the driving force that motivates the players, not winning. If winning was really that important, wouldn’t the Colts, Saints, Rams, and Bengals have put forth their best effort?

The Colts sacrificed a chance at an undefeated season. Both the Colts and the Saints sacrificed a chance at ending the season on a high note, some “experts” claiming they have now lost momentum heading into the playoffs. But what about the Rams and the Bengals? What did they really sacrifice? Both teams had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Did these teams benefit from tanking their final games? The Rams will if they draft Ndamukong Suh, the otherworldly nose tackle from Nebraska. We’ll know Sunday about the Bengals. For the Colts and the Saints? They both have byes this week. They get to “rest” even more. Let’s see if it pays off. I think I’ll pass at venturing a guess. I have to rest now.