Time's running out. They're at my door; I don't think I can hold them off any longer. I just wanted to write this in case I don't make it out alive.

It all started around 10 p.m. Sunday. I was sitting through "American Dad" while trying to think of an idea for this column when it happened.

Oh my God! They're using Chris Berman as a battering ram!

I don't know exactly when the notion started to take root in my brain, but sometime between the show and one of the commercials, I decided that I would not make one mention of the Super Bowl.

I think Howie Long is trying to burrow his way in.

I think there's something poignant about watching boring and depressing normal commercials after feasting on the smorgasbord of comedic genius that is the "Super Bowl Commercial Extravaganza," aka "The Excuse Most Girls Give For Watching the Game." It was at this point, watching a regular, unexciting commercial for Menard's, that I decided that there are many reasons not to mention the game.

For one, I'm sick of all the hype. The pre-week hype, the pre-game hype, the pre-halftime show hype; all of it.

James Brown just broke my window!

Also, I would be able to lash back at the peer pressure to make a big deal about the game. Everyone was watching it, even though half of the national audience probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Tedy Bruschi and the drink in their hand.

Third, the commercials are lame. Humorous commercials have been riding the coattails of that "Where's the beef?" lady for years, and she's dead.

They tossed in Bob Costas. Thankfully, I'd gotten the Costas vaccine years ago.

So I decided I would accept the challenge of trying not to mention something that everyone was talking about. There had to be other things going on, and indeed there were. People were playing golf, tennis and basketball, and the Animal Planet channel was airing something called the Puppy Bowl, which was three hours of puppies running around a fake football stadium.

That's when they started coming after me. It started with Terry Bradshaw's grinning face on the television, rehashing the game, again and again. Then it was the front page of ESPN.com, forcing huge photos into my eyeballs.

Then they showed up at my house. Bradshaw is currently standing behind me and announcing the decree that came down from On High that all sports media shall regurgitate opinions on the Super Bowl for the duration of this week, under penalty of having to watch "I, Max" every day.

So I have no choice but to give in.

The only problem is, I doubt I have enough to say about the Super Bowl to fill up a column.

This article appeared in The Marquette Tribune on Feb. 8 2005.