This just in ...

 Because the Blob is your First Source For News You Can Use (or something like that), we present to you this morning a couple of breaking (or broken) items you didn't think you needed to know.

One: The NFC won the Pro Bowl Flag Football Game And Fish Fry, 66-52. Antoine Winfield Jr. intercepted Joe Burrow with about four minutes to play to seal the comeback victory. A lineman scored a touchdown. A wide receiver intercepted a pass. And Micah Parsons, still recovering from a season-ending injury, tried to check himself into the game on a scooter.

 Alas, the officials wouldn't let him. Big meanies.

Meanwhile, in actual sporting events that aren't really sporting events ...

Two: A Doberman pinscher named Penny won the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

Penny, you'll be pleased to learn, is four years old and loves treats. She's the fifth Dobie to win the Westy. And she'll tear you into tiny bite-sized chunks when her handler says "Mustard!"

Nah, just kidding. Penny's a sweetheart, apparently. 

Other stars of the show included an Afghan hound named Zaida; a Lhasa apso named JJ; a Maltese named Cookie; and old English sheepdog named Archibald Burlingame IV (actually, Graham). There was also Storm the Newfoundland, Oliver the golden retriever and the Blob's personal favorite, Lumpy the Pekingese, whom the spectators of course serenaded with cries of "Lumpy! Lumpy! Lumpy!" Lumpy responded by putting on oversized rhinestone sunglasses and breaking into a cover of  "Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting" while the crowd went wild.

Nah, just kidding.

It was actually "Bohemian Rhapsody."

The lunacy lives

 In world of bizarre flights of fancy from our national "leaders", plus a general free-floating insanity from same, it's comforting to know there are still grounded elements amid all the chaos. There is, for example, Super Bowl Media Day.

Those of you who read the Blob's post yesterday ("Oooh! You're calling them 'posts' now! Fancy!" you're saying) were treated to a lot of old-man reminiscing about the sheer lunacy that is Media Day. It's been recast now as Super Bowl Opening Night, but the good news, is, the lunacy remains.

At one point in the festivities last night, for instance, Seahawks quarterback Sam Darnold was compelled to put a plastic ham on his head. No, I don't know why. Maybe because "Sam" rhymes with "ham" or something.

Meanwhile, according to the website Awful Announcing, the Guy Who's Just There To Ask Stunt Questions was also on hand. He's been a Media Day/Opening Night staple for years, and these days his name is Dave Dameshek. He hosts a podcast for something called the DraftKings Network, and Awful Announcing describes him as a "longtime NFL personality."

Rule of thumb to know and learn: Anyone people describe as a "personality" is most certainly not  "media." He (or she) is a lounge act. A rodeo clown. The comic relief with a well-established bit.

Dameshek's bit is to ask the same intentionally absurd question at every Super Bowl Media Day/Opening Night, just to see how his target reacts. This time the target was Patriots head coach Mike Vrabel, and the question, as always, was, "Is this a must-win game?"

Ha-ha. Tee-hee. Hilarious.

Now, I don't know what reaction Dameshek was shooting for. Likely he wanted Vrabel to blurt out something along the lines of, "'A must-win game'? What are you, stupid? It's the Super Bowl, for God's sake! You must have cream cheese for brains!"

Alas, Vrabel played it straight. Said something about how he regards every NFL game as a must-win game. And Dameshek did not get the honor and glory of being told he had a cranium full of bagel condiments.

Better luck next year, dude.

Excuse me. Better luck next year, Longtime NFL Personality.

Welcome to Super Roman Numeral Week

 I don't know if the groundhog or porcupine or whatever it is saw his shadow this morning, but I do know what today ushers in. It's Super Roman Numeral Week, boys and girls!

During which there will be parties and lots of patting oneself on the back by the NFL, and also parties. And other parties. And Sam Darnold being asked 900 times why he doesn't suck anymore. Followed by even more other parties.

I say this as someone who covered three of these distinctly American bacchanals, and was always left slack-jawed at the pure silliness that attends the biggest week in the nation's biggest sport. Dirty little secret: As a sportswriter, it wasn't all that hard a gig. There were news conferences every day that spoon-fed us stories only a hundred or so others wrote; there also stories just lying on the ground that, if you were lucky or enterprising enough, no one else thought to write.

It also provided some, shall we say, unique experiences.

Like the year Prince was the halftime show, and turned his pre-Super Bowl news conference into an impromptu three-number concert. Alleged journalists leaped to their feet cheering and clapping and dancing in the aisles. Weirdest presser ever.

On the other hand, nothing was weirder than Media Day. This became an event in itself -- in Indianapolis in 2012, they actually sold tickets to it -- and it had as much to do with actual Media as the Jerry Springer Show. You had legit writers and radio and TV foofs, but you also had quasi-celebrities and self-promoters and that one guy from Telemundo asking questions via sock puppet. 

For instance, I was there the day someone asked Bears tight end Desmond Clark what position he thought Chewbacca would play if Chewbacca played football.

I was there the day some Nickelodeon character named Pick Boy was traipsing around in orange-and-green tights and cape pronouncing that his muscles were real and his hair was perfect. I was there for Super Bowl Wayne -- legit handle: Wayne C. Lavelle -- who was from Honolulu and whose claim to fame was he'd been to 32 Super Bowls in a row.

I was there the day someone showed up dressed as Red Grange, complete with leather helmet.  There the day Genghis Khan made an appearance, only this Genghis Khan was wearing white sunglasses with lenses the size of dinner plates. There ... oh, look, here's Super Bowl Wayne again, handing out business cards.

"Television Radio Film Internet Personality," it read.

I hope the Television Radio Film Internet Personality is at this week's Media Day.

I mean, someone's got to ask Drake Maye, for the 500th time, if he's ready for this. And if he's ready, how ready? Is the percentage of his readiness 60 percent? Seventy-five percent? Ninety percent?

After which someone really does have to ask Sam Darnold why he doesn't suck anymore.

And, by the way, what's the percentage of his readiness?

Mother Unnatural, Part Deux

 So remember yesterday, when the Blob talked about Nelly Korda and the LPGA, and the bomb cyclone that hit Orlando and the rest of Florida before Bond could disarm it?

(Because, to reiterate, "bomb cyclone" sounds more like a doomsday weapon Goldfinger would come up with than a weather system)

Well, it's not just women's golf Mother Unnatural messed with. 

It was also NASCAR. 

Know what the folks at that venerable old bullring Bowman Gray Stadium were doing Sunday, instead of kicking off the season with the Busch Clash?

They were plowing snow off the track. Like, lots and lots of snow.

This is because Bowman Gray is in Winston-Salem, N.C., which got a foot of snow last week. A foot of snow. In North Carolina.

Meanwhile, in Tampa, Fla., the NHL played an outdoor game Sunday in what actually felt like hockey weather (game-time temp was a wintry 40 degrees without the windchill). Talk about turning the globe upside-down.

By the time the storm blew itself out, after all, Winston-Salem looked more like Helsinki,  and Charlotte -- where most of the NASCAR teams are quartered -- was doing a passable imitation of Oslo. And this in a state where you can usually handle winter with four snowplows and a salt shaker.

(OK, so I exaggerate. North Carolina prolly has five snowplows at least.)

So, yeah, on Sunday, when folks were supposed to be tuning into the Clash, they were tuning into the Highway Department 200 instead. Plus, it got down to 14 degrees in Winston-Salem last night. And a '64 Volkswagen Beetle has a better heater than your average Cup car.

Ah, but by Wednesday, the temperature supposed to climb all the way to 40. That's when the Clash is supposed to take place now, the good Lord willing and the creek don't freeze over.

Any-hoo, I guess we can infer from all this that Mother Unnatural not only doesn't like golf, she apparently doesn't like stock-car racin', either. Which oughta be grounds for deportation, in my mind. It is what we do best these days, after all.

Mother Unnatural

 Happy February, everyone, that benighted month in which "winter wonderland" becomes an epithet and everyone thanks the calendar gods that it's also the shortest month.

I'm looking out my window right now, for instance, and it's not some Currier and Ives print of the horse pulling the sleigh over the river and through the woods. No, sir. It's  Siberia out there: Eight or so inches of snow on the ground, minus-1 degrees. . 

Everything's white, including my salt-encrusted car. Woo-hoo.

Want to know the worst thing?

You can't even go to Florida to get warm.

Hanging ten through my socials this a.m., and I saw that play was suspended yesterday in the third round of the season-opening LPGA Tournament of Champions. Not because of thunder, lightning and rain, mind you. Because it was TOO DAMN COLD AND WINDY.

That's got to be a first. Especially since they were playing in FREAKING ORLANDO.

The wind was blowing at 20 mph with gusts up to 40, dropping the windchills into the 40s. The weather boys and girls said the culprit was a bomb cyclone -- which sounds more like a weapon Bond must dismantle than a weather system -- staging a daring daylight raid on the Sunshine State.

And elsewhere. I surfed a little more, and some pictures from Myrtle Beach and Charlotte, N.C., popped up. The roads were white with snowpack, and it was still coming down. It looked like Norway had invaded the Deep South. 

Either that, or Mother Nature (Mother Unnatural?) saying, "You wanna see a War of Northern Aggression? I'll show you a War of Northern Aggression!"

Yeah, boy. Don't try to tell me our weather isn't doing some weird stuff. It is. And it's getting weirder the more our elected numbskulls keep denying our weather is doing weird stuff.

But enough about that. Let's get back to Orlando.

Where, according to my weather app, it's 28 degrees right now, with a windchill of 17. But the good news is, it's supposed to be a balmy 40 by noon.

Which means Nelly Korda, who shot 64 yesterday before play was suspended and sits atop the leaderboard, could make history today: 

First LPGA player to win a tournament while wearing a thermal mittens and a parka. Visor by Cabela's. 

The immortal one

 Look, I don't know what keeps Novak Djokovic going. Carrot juice, perhaps. Kale smoothies. Peanut M&Ms.

All I know is, yesterday down in Australia, while the wider world pretty much ignored it, he did something remarkable.

He outlasted Jannik Sinner in five sets in the Australian Open semifinal.

Won the fifth set 6-4. Walked off the court a winner after four hours and nine minutes of grinding. The match didn't end until 1:30 in the morning Australian time.

Oh, and one more thing: Novak Djokovic is 38 years old.

In tennis years, that's like 65. Maybe 70. And yet the Joker keeps on keeping on. 

Across the years he's won more majors (24), more Masters (40) and been ranked No. 1 in the world (428 weeks) more than any male player in history. He's the only player in history to achieve a career grand slam three times. He is, without much dispute, the greatest male tennis player the world has ever seen.

Maybe the most solid proof of that?

In Sinner, he beat a man 14 years his junior. And it wasn't even that big an upset, because even though Sinner is the No. 2 player in the world, Djokovic is still ranked fourth.

Fourth. At 38.

By contrast, his two major contemporaries, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, are 44 and 39, respectively. Federer retired three years ago, at 41. Nadal retired last year, when he was 38. Neither were ranked anywhere close to fourth in the world when they departed.

Now here is Djokovic, the only one of the Magnificent Three left standing, still standing tall. He won his first major 18 years ago. Tomorrow he could win his 25th.

It probably won't happen. Awaiting him in the final is the No. player in the world, Carlos Alcaraz. He's 16 years younger, faster and absolutely relentless. The Australian Open is also, at the tender age of 22, the only major title he hasn't won. So he has motivation on his side, too.

However.

However, he's facing a man who might just be immortal. 

Ridiculous, I know. Or is it?

Movie time!

(In which the Blob once again escapes the Sportsball compound to maraud freely through the landscape of America, pillaging small villages and frightening the children. You know what to do.)

The long awaited action rom-com "Melania" opened around the country this weekend, and like many of you I am super excited to stop at the gas station, buy some Junior Mints to sneak in and head off to the movie theater. So much anticipation! So much mystery! So many questions!

For instance, in the climactic light saber fight, will Melania take on the giant space centipede in the obligatory Thong Bikini That Leaves Nothing To The Imagination?

(I'm guessing yes)

Also, will there be an epic catfight with Joan Collins at some point? 

(Because there always has to be an epic catfight with Joan Collins at some point)

Will there be a torrid love scene with Glen Powell, who plays the obligatory Wisecracking Secret Service Agent With A Heart Of Gold? And will Melania's husband, President Donald John Trump Esq. -- portrayed by the late Soupy Sales -- discover them, fly into a rage and invade, I don't know, Uruguay, perhaps?

(Unquestionably)

Will Dr. Evil make an appearance? And will he capture Melania, whisk her off to  Mar-a-Lago and inflate her lips to the size of dirigibles?

(Surprise cameos by Kristi Noem, Kimberley Guilfoyle, Lara Loomer et al)

Will Melania then find Diana Rigg's long-lost martial arts unitard from "The Avengers", and, inspired, put it on and kick the hell out of Dr. Evil?

(Surprise cameo by Mr. Miyagi)

Will Melania and Glen Powell live happily ever after, like Sigourney Weaver and Kevin Kline in "Dave"? Will there be yet another surprise cameo, this one by Martin Sheen as former President Jed Bartlet? And will the real Donald John Trump Esq. demand his own cameo, which then will magically be expanded into a Major Starring Role?

Do we even have to ask that last question?