MIAMI — The last time I saw you, Curt, you were crawling around under your desk, claiming you had lost something. I’m sorry. I had no idea it was your mind.
San Diego? You’re picking San Diego, an 18 1/2-point underdog?
So it’s true what they say about people your age. Congratulations, Curt. It’s not often a football pick is followed by a call for urinalysis.
Curt, my aged-like-a-fine-salami friend, do you realize you’ve passed up one of the greatest collections of football talent in history, in favor of men who wear lightning bolts on their heads?
Say. One of those bolts didn’t strike you, did it?
That would explain a lot, including the time I found you mumbling to your fish tank, “Pick me a winner, Goldy, pick me a winner. . . .” It might also explain how a team that throughout the playoffs has spent less than seven minutes with a lead manages to get the nod from you in a family paper.
Curt, you are the football writer at the Free Press. But doesn’t that mean you know a little bit — not everything, not a whole lot, just a teeny, weeny bit — ABOUT FOOTBALL?
Question: Which side did you have in the Gulf War?
This is worse than the time you told me Woodstock II would be better than Woodstock I. Worse than when you said “the Mexican peso is the currency of the future.” You are losing it, Curt, and I’m afraid I can’t help. I notice in your statements next door, you don’t even get to your point until the last three paragraphs. What are you, part of the O.J. defense team?
Of course, Curt, you claim you make this loony pick because you finished so terribly in our season-long war of predictions. I agree. You were terrible. When it comes to picks, your season reminds me of that Sinatra song: “Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention.”
Only we substitute “regrets” with “winners.”
I don’t want to say your judgment has gone the way of your hairline. I will say People magazine called, and it appreciated your voting for yourself as Sexiest Man On Earth, but Brad Pitt still won.
Listen. I know you feel a certain affinity with Stan Humphries because he, like you, is falling apart as we speak, but, Curt, can I give you three names? Steve Young, Jerry Rice. Deion Sanders. Game over. I’m not sure the rest of the team even needs to show up.
Which is good. It gives us more men to catch you when you leap from the flagpole Sunday shouting, “I’m a little teacup, short and stout. . . .”
Suggestion: Jump before Kathie Lee Gifford starts singing. It’ll be the first smart decision you make all year.
San Francisco 40, San Diego 14.