It's Conference Championship Sunday, which means I'm about to spend eight hours staring at my television like it owes me child support. Patriots versus Broncos in the AFC. Rams versus Seahawks in the NFC. Four teams. Two tickets to New Orleans. One degenerate screaming at his phone about cover probabilities while his family pretends they don't know him.
Let's start with the AFC Championship. New England is in Denver and I'm already having altitude sickness from the audacity of the spread. The Patriots have no business being here, and yet here they are, like a cockroach that survived the apocalypse and is now asking to borrow your car. Bill Belichick's ghost haunts this franchise, except he's still alive and coaching somewhere else, which makes it worse. They're playing with house money and vibes.
Denver, meanwhile, has been running through the AFC like a trust fund kid at a charity auction, just outbidding everyone while looking slightly bored. Sean Payton has turned this team into a machine that converts opposing hopes into field goals and passive aggressive press conferences. The Broncos at home in January should be automatic. Should be. Famous last words for degenerates everywhere.
Then there's the NFC. Rams versus Seahawks. Matthew Stafford is somehow still vertical, still throwing dimes, still looking like the most divorced quarterback in NFL history. This man plays football like he's trying to win back his ex-wife's respect. Every touchdown is a text message she'll never return.
Seattle showed up with Geno Smith playing like he found the fountain of youth in a gas station bathroom. The man was out of the league. He was coaching high school kids and contemplating real estate. Now he's in the NFC Championship game, which is either inspirational or proof that God has a sense of humor and it's pointed directly at Las Vegas oddsmakers.
My picks? Absolutely none of your business. I've already lost enough money this postseason to fund a small country's infrastructure. My bookie has started sending me holiday cards. Not friendly ones. The threatening kind, with photos of my car.
But I'll be watching. I'll be screaming. I'll be refreshing my balance every three minutes like a psychopath. And when it's over, I'll either be insufferable or applying for government assistance. There is no middle ground on Conference Championship Sunday.
Kickoff is at 3 PM Eastern. My emotional collapse is scheduled for approximately 3:47 PM. See you on the other side, degenerates.