Live From New York! It's ... Me!

On Saturday night, I had a vivid dream that I cohosted Saturday Night Live with another sports columnist, Bill Simmons. Because the show's writers had either taken the week off or were on strike, I improvized the monologue, which started off slow but picked up steam after climbing a ladder to the top of Studio 8H for some reason with fellow Boston College alum Amy Poehler, leading to a rowsing ovation. I then told the crowd that the "Very-Big, Very-Big Bosstones are here," because the censor warned me that the growingly imposing FCC would not allow the repeated use of the word "Mighty" on the air. Sting made a cameo in a skit that involved me and Simmons and some faceless cast member as construction workers in cherry-pickers. Oh, and the four of us sang for some reason. With the dream imitating life, the show got worse as it went on and the audience laughter was nonexistent toward the end as me, Simmons, the Very-Big Very-Big Bosstones and Sting joined the cast for the Goodbyes.

The dream sequence carried into the next day, when JumpTheShark.com was inundated with angry users who declared it the worst SNL episode in history and that I was its worst-ever host.

Ouch, my subconscious is a tough crowd.

Still, when I awoke, I was more impressed that I theoretically was picked to cohost the show than upset by the terrible reviews. Go me.