So this is what it feels like, huh?

Holyfuckingshit.

Son of a left-handed biscuit. (hat tip to Dr. Whatley, inventor of Tide)

By the power of Grayskull.

Oh my balls.

Great ghosts of Gargamel's Balls.

Balls of Mount Balls' Scrote.

K-Fed ate my baby's balls.

Those are a few of the nonsensical utterings my overwhelmed brain has coughed up over the last few hours. Brutal hangover notwithstanding, I now know what the limits of my central nervous system are. In other words, I've literally reached that point where something so extraordinary and unfathomable has occurred that I have no method of processing it. Instead, I tend to sit here open-mouthed (a la Eli), occasionally blinking myself back into awareness, only to be forced to reconsider the course of events of the last 24 hours.

This is a world where a marginal player can somehow catch a football-shaped ball with his FUCKING HELMET. A world in which I am humbled.

A world where one team can enter the Super Bowl with the never-before-achieved record of 18-0, then lose to a team led by a quarterback affectionately known as "the crappy one" in his family even when his oldest brother is some finance chump.

A world where, while watching the game last night, I screamed "Gisele's been to the abortion clinic four times already this month" and "I hope Wes Welker's children die," yet still, somehow, the Gods of Karma chose to...reward my over-the-top hostility and downright nastiness?

Where the fuck am I?

In my sports-watching life, the team I care about most -- the Mets -- has won one championship. That was in 1986, and at age 8, I had no proper perspective to appreciate the its magnitude. As if to hammer that point home, a few months later, the team I care about second-most -- the Giants -- won the Super Bowl. Four years after that, the Giants won it all again. Those three games -- each absolutely wonderful and spendiferous and scrumtrelecent, yes -- are it, though. Other than those three games, I have nothing but heartbreak, disappointment, and rage in my experience column.

That's why it's both beautiful and baffling to me as I sit here trying my hardest to compute what happened last night. It's been 17 years since I've been able to call my team Champion. In those 17 years, there have been some notable events which I, and those odd Giants/Mets fans have endured: the 49ers game, the not-even-close Super Bowl loss to the Ravens, this past September's Mets collapse, and, most painfully, a World Series loss to my most-hated enemy.

At this point, I feel conditioned to events like that. But for events like actually, you know, succeeding, alas, I got nothing.

I can say this though: It does feel quite nice. That surely sounds deserving of a Captain Obvious tag, but as I've never been old enough to properly experience something like this, "nice" is goddamn eloquent, nay Shakespearean, okay?

Holy humping Moses Malone's Tits, this feels good.