I shoulda known.

Shoulda known this was gonna be one freaky NFL postseason when the first thing I witnessed was a Voodoo priestess named Ava Kay Jones wrapped in a giant snake dancing, er, well, convulsing all over the 50-yard line inside the Superdome in order to exorcise the funky spirits that had plagued the Saints for 34 winless Januarys.

Shoulda known when the Rams, on the verge of not just winning, but winning by 17 points, fumbled the postseason away into the hands of Brian Milne, a cancer survivor who had been cut by the Bengals so they could afford more players like Corey Dillon.

Shoulda known when I watched the Saints D turn the Rams' Air Martz into K-Martz. I also watched this same team win with a QB, Aaron Brooks, who is so skinny you could hide him behind a yardage marker.

I saw some doofus -- I think he goes by the name JumboTron Jerkie (and if he doesn't he should) -- blindfold a fan inside Adelphia Coliseum, spin the poor dude around and force him to chase down a six-foot hot dog -- without relish.

And the only guy more embarrassed than the fan was Al Del Greco, who hit the kicker trifecta of horror: short, wide and blocked. Dear Al, shanks for the memories.

I saw a player with a vitamin case bigger than my carry-on.

In Minny, just before a Vikings practice (yes, I can confirm that they did actually prepare for the NFC Championship game) that I saw this sign above a lit fireplace at a coffee shop: Warning, fireplace is very hot!

Inside the Vikes' locker room, another sign that read: Spat control, all players should spat before practice. Turns out, spat control is what Denny Green will need to do this spring.

I realized who Jim Fassel looks like: The brainiac blond kid on Rocky and Bullwinkle.

I realized that if Kerry Collins wins Super Bowl MVP, he won't be able to drive the car out of the stadium.

I sat through a pedantic rant by Vikes' back Robert Smith about the difference between astrology and astronomy. Turns out, astrology is using the way the stars are aligned to tell fortunes. Sorry, dude, my bad. I checked Robert's, it read: You will be held to 15 yards in the first half of the biggest game of your life, ya smarty pants.

I watched the Vikes' kickers shovel snow off the practice field and then pelt my nasty burnt orange rental car in a nearby parking lot in order to prepare for the conditions inside the Meadowlands.

I watched the dumpy guy from Fox and The Man Show work half a day with an entourage the size of most high school graduating classes.

I have decided to projectile vomit on the next player who, with nothing original to say, claims no one has given his team the proper respect.

I listened as Vikes' center Matt Birk said the smartest thing I have heard during the last month (which makes sense since he's a Harvard alum): "It stands to reason, if you're fast on turf, you'll be fast on grass. Or if you're like me, if you're slow on turf you'll probably be slow on grass. It's not that hard." Of course, I noticed that Birk had a Simpsons lunch pail in his locker.

I heard a NY radio doofus (JumboTron Jerkie, is that you?) actually make this promise to a Giant while coaxing him on the air: "Come on, I'll take you to dinner at TGI Fridays . . . O.K, O.K., YOUR WIFE TOO."

I listened as my brother Bill, a distinguished FBI agent and respected father of two, left this exact message on my voicemail at 12:47 p.m. on Sunday after the Giants won: "Yabbawhooookeymaamaaaa!!!!!!!

Which, I have come to find out, is exactly what Ava Kay Jones was mumbling to her snake in the Superdome.

David Fleming, a senior writer for The Magazine, shares his off-center perspective each Tuesday on ESPNMAG.com. E-mail flemfile@aol.com.