And now ... windchill football!

 Ray Ratto of the Defector beat me to this, which is fine because he's Ray Ratto and I'm not. But the weather news out of Buffalo unleashed Ray's inner bony-fisted old man, and it's done the same for me, an actual bony-fisted old man.

The weather news out of Buffalo is this: It's supposed to be somewhere between Sweet Jesus It's Cold and My Toes Just Turned Black this evening for the Bills wild-card game against the Patriots.

Temps close to zero with windchills well below zero are forecast, which has prompted the Erie County Sheriff's Office to issue a public safety warning advising fans on how to dress  (although, being Buffalonians, I'm sure they already know how to dress). In any case, the Blob loves this. There's going to be nothing better than watching Bill Belichick slowly turn into a Jack Nicholson-sicle, then proclaim after the game that the weather "was not a factor."

Of course it will be a factor. And it should be, because this is football, not ballet.

If the Blob were king of the world, see, it would decree all football games be played outdoors, because this is what God and George Halas and Curley Lambeau intended. Until the big TV money came along, it was taken as an article of faith that the elements were supposed to be an integral part of the game. After all, some of the most memorable games in the history were memorable because of the elements.

The Ice Bowl. The Fog Bowl.  The Blizzard Bowl between Ohio State and Michigan in 1950. The icier Ice Bowl between the Bengals and the Chargers in 1981, when the windchills approached Roald Amundsen Explores Antarctica levels.

"But Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Lousy weather frequently makes for lousy football.  Shouldn't we get to see all the teams at their best?"

Hell, no, we shouldn't. It's the playoffs. I don't want to see the teams play in climate-controlled 72-degree comfort. I want to see them suffer, because at its core, football is all about suffering. The suffering is what makes it great, to paraphrase Tom Hanks' drunken manager in "A League Of Their Own."

So, yeah, bring on those windchills. Open the damn roofs. Make 'em play Man Football and not, you know, Video Game Football.

Ray Ratto and I are in full agreement on this. 

Of course, he's Ray Ratto, so he says it better. But you get the gist.