It would be bad enough if the Saints make the Super Bowl, after that meat-wit Nick Saban stupidly passed on Drew Brees.

It won't be any easier to swallow should the Vikings make it, considering that a move to Minnesota magically turned our old personnel fail-monger Rick Spielman into a roster-stacking genius.

But then there's this: the Colts' silly starter-resting stunt in Week 15 means the Jets -- the hated, hated New York Jets -- are one game away from playing for the Super Bowl. 

Out of our locker room.

In our stadium.

In our city, or at least in Miami Gardens. Whatever. BLECH.

As if the Dolphins' regular season wasn't bad enough, the post-season has become a living nightmare. Sure, we had our laugh at the Jets, what with Rex Ryan looking a fool engaging Channing Crowder and Darrelle Revis becoming the only person in human history to be burned by the NFL version of Ted Ginn.

We beat them, twice, and we laughed. Oh, how we laughed.

But the Jets have managed to capitalize on the good luck passed their way, and they're rolling when it counts -- something the Dolphins never managed to do.

All of a sudden, all that hot air Rex Ryan was spouting came true. He actually proved himself right -- even if it was by accident -- and has become such a hero, fans in New York are actually worried about his eating habits lest he prematurely depart this mortal coil in a chocolate-covered donut (to be fair, this is our exact plan when the time comes).

And if the Colts fail on Sunday, we'll have to endure the horror of an influx of obnoxious Jets fans for a whole weekend, and the possibility that it might get even worse: they could win.

The Super Bowl.

In Miami.

Honestly, we don't even know what to advise if they make it to the big game -- other than begin digging your fallout shelter now. Stock up on water and canned food. Gather menus of every neighborhood joint that delivers. It's gonna be horrible.