Dear Nerd,

Hi, how are you? I am fine. Thank you for asking. It’s nice to see that living with your parents all these years after college hasn’t spoiled your suspended adolescence. You still clearly have issues when talking to women, especially attractive ones. And, for some reason, you seem to hate everything Apple has ever released. Of course, that’s just before you scurry out like messenger-bagged ferrets and buy whatever it is that you were just trashing.

Heard you were squealing the other day about the iPad. Howling about how it doesn’t do this or that. Blah blah blah. The web was buzzing with your four-eyed pontifications and stupid tampon jokes. It doesn’t take pictures or something about multiple applications being unable to run. I’m not sure. Truthfully, I stopped listening at “It.”

The thing is: I think I speak for most everyone else here not named Beau or Jeff C. when I ask you to stop lecturing us, while you sit in your tent in front of an Apple store, so you can be the first to buy one and prance around your friend’s apartment when you get together for video game parties. Or whatever it is you nerds get up to when the rest of us are having fun with humans.

I mean, seriously: If there was an app that would allow you to sodomize your iPhone you would. (You know you’ve thought about it, dude.)

I have a new MacBook that is loaded with a trillion applications, 90% of which I have no idea how to use. Guess what? Who fucking cares. I write, surf the net, take three pictures a month. And I love my computer. But is it good? I have no idea. Still, if you try and talk crap about it and I’ll spray bathroom cleaner on your RealDoll.

To millions of us, the iPad looks pretty incredible, and I am very excited to get my bear paws on one of them. But so what if it can’t do five things at once? Isn’t that what you have a computer for?

All your back-biting, back-stabbing and backseat driving is doing is ruining it for the rest of us. All so you can act so superior, lecturing a world of simpletons about why the new thing we are so enamored with is actually crappy. Unbeknownst to us.

Hey, I want to sit on the couch and surf the net while I watch TV. I want to be able to watch a movie on an airplane. I basically want to have fun and not worry about what it cannot do. A year ago the thing was a pipe dream to most of us, anyway.

Is it too much to ask for you to keep your opinions to yourself? Answer me nerd, or I’ll tell your mother. And then you’ll get grounded for sure. Or worse.

No Comic-Con next year.

“The best writing, for me, comes when I have sustained an unpleasant shock . . . or insults and abuse from a group of academic colleagues. Then I write to affirm my own dignity, humanity, and autonomy.”—Howard Zinn

I’ve never been a big fan of impartiality, which is why I would either be the best judge in the world, or the worst one—depending upon how you see things. It’s also why Howard Zinn dying the other day has gone over in my world like a lead balloon.

Howard, 87 when he suffered a fatal heart attack, was a true champion of the left but far outflanked even some of the heftiest lefties in his repudiation of the federal government. The fact is, he was so far left of the left wing that he would’ve needed a GPS tracker just to thumb his nose at those pussies.

In 1980, Zinn wrote a book called, “A People’s History of the United States,” which was basically the world as he saw it, his opinion, making the title that much more audacious. His was an uncompromising worldview and morality was not to be bartered. If something was wrong once, it was wrong in  every instance.

Virulently anti-war, Zinn spent a half-century lashing out at the United States war machine that, as he saw it, drove the country blindly into armed conflicts that were none of our goddamn business. He stuck up for the oppressed: minorities, immigrants and women. And continued to rail against corruptors in every parts of society.

Critics said that he warped the facts to fit his theses, and that is probably true in some cases. But no one could say that Zinn was unqualified to speak on such subjects.

A decorated World War II fighter pilot, Zinn dealt death upon German soldiers and, to his horror, French citizens, and that might explain his disgust at the Viet Nam war. He traveled to Hanoi 40 years ago this month, during the height of the Tet Offensive—which, I’m told was no fun—to gain the release of two POWs. He was a lion of the Civil Rights movement, teaching at Spellman College and mentoring budding activists and really good authors like Alice Walker.

If you are looking for a compelling recent documentary, check out, “The People Speak,” a collection of Zinn’s writings read by celebrity activists like Matt Damon, Morgan Freeman, Viggo Mortensen and Dina Lohan. (Just kidding on that one.) It was released just before Christmas.

I guess that’s all that’s left to say, although I could probably go on for hours. Howard Zinn, a pretty dangerous guy to those prescribed to the conservative orthodoxy, lived a good long life and hopefully, he died knowing that he left the world a bit better than he found it.

Although some of you may disagree, I think he was an amazing and courageous American. That’s my opinion and, as Howard would probably say, you are entitled to disagree. You’d just be wrong.

Right, Howard?

This one hurts. So badly. Breathtakingly painfully. I know to you non-sports fans it all sounds so ridiculous; like a bunch of guys sitting around in funny jerseys yelling at the TV. And, in the grand scheme of things, who cares? It’s just a game. I respect your opinion, but if you say that to my face, we’re through.

Sadly, this is what it means to be a Vikings fan. Not just losing, but throwing the game away. Would it have been better had they lost 41-0? Yes, absolutely it would have. Because then, I would just have accepted that the better team had won and moved on. But that’s not what happened.

We handed the Saints the Ball five times and they won in overtime, after three terrible calls by the referee to move them into field goal range. They late hit our quarterback several times, and he still moved the ball up and down the field on them. Their QB is a runt and their coach is a punk and I will enjoy watching Peyton Manning carve them up like a Christmas ham.

The Vikings played so carelessly on offense, that I am actually having trouble envisioning myself going up there next season for a game. I will, of course, but it is going to take a few months to get over this one.

Over the course of my lifetime, I have learned to embrace the dark nights like tonight. Another bag of coal, another notch in the belt of my suffering. Because when the Vikings eventually win the Super Bowl, I can say that it was all worth it. In the way, I’m like an opus dei, only a Vikings fan.

Nevertheless, tonight just sucks so badly, so viscerally that I am welcoming going to sleep. The fact is this: Another year, another choke.

Some things never change.

Imagine, for a moment, that you are Andy Richter. A funny guy. Really funny, actually. But, due to your own poor decision-making, and the worst luck this side of that lady who got kablammed by the Cat in the Hat Thanksgiving Day parade float a decade ago, you are sitting alone tonight in a darkened room. And you are crying. Sobbing actually.

If the story has a silver lining….actually, what am I saying? There is none. That bad taste in your mouth that will never wash out, no matter how much bourbon passes your lips. And there will be a river of it over the next few months, Andy.

Fifteen years ago, you came to national prominence as Conan’s sidekick on The Late Show. Out of nowhere. Pudgy, beady eyed and always on the verge of sweaty. No one would ever look at you and said, “Get that man on TV.”

Nevertheless, you had a few great years together, and your chemistry with Coco—as you sat side-by-side, like a couple of college roommates—was pretty incredible.

Then you quit. You felt the need to strike out on your own, for some unknown reason. Perhaps you met an agent at the gym, or something. I don’t know. Then came The Andy Richter Show.

It lasted about as long as it took me to write this sentence. Poof. And you went home. Thud.

Then the miracle happened. Conan called. He was getting the band back together for The Tonight Show. You were going to be his sidekick, his comic foil for twenty or so years. Holy smokes, Andy! The rest of your adult life was laid out before you, like a red carpet. It doesn’t matter that Coco moved you from his side to a crummy podium, where you shoehorn in funny asides now and again. Who gets this lucky twice in one lifetime?

Okay, besides for you and the former announcer for Jay Leno’s unfunny, uninteresting, un-everything version of The Tonight Show, Stuttering John Melendez, who may himself rise like a modern-day Lazarus.

Then disaster struck and those NBC morons decided to force Conan’s hand. He did the right thing, you know. Leaving with his dignity. And leaving the show to continue to wither and die. But he’s a smart guy, like you, and the third time’s always a charm. Conan may find another spot and decide to bring you back in from the cold.

And it’s cold where you are, Andy. Freezing actually.

Well, it was nice for awhile to believe that the U.S. could muster enough decency to ensure that every citizen had access to health care. And that our country was going to stop kowtowing to drug and insurance companies.

But that’s over, thanks to the voters of Massachusetts, who elected a guy that makes Mitt Romney look like Abe Lincoln. I respect the fact that they voted, but I cannot help but think that some of them voted for fear instead of hope (right out of the GOP playbook). The irony is that they, too, are without jobs and health care and have children who go to bed hungrier than they should. So when they will wonder what happens when they get sick, and a job doesn’t materialize, even after six months of looking, I would like to fill them in:

They’ll die. Maybe not right away, but sooner than they should. Because there is no Plan B here. There never was. Ask Scott Brown. He’ll mumble something about fixing the broken system and then go about the business of lining his pockets with campaign dollars from the health care lobby.

And those emergency rooms that the less-fortunate Republican voters use as their primary care physicians are falling apart from overcrowding, too, and now there will be no money to fix them. That’s over. As are affordable drugs for seniors like my mom, and maybe yours as well.

But I’m sure that they took all of this into consideration when they decided to “send Washington a message.” That idiot Brown called it a “shot heard ’round the world.” The only problem is that the gun was in the voters’ mouths and they didn’t even know it.

I realize now that we will never have true universal health coverage in the richest nation on earth. Because if Obama couldn’t do it, we might as well give up on it and go back to the game of haves and have-nots, that we seem to play so well.

This isn’t an ideological issue; it’s one of morality. I can’t help but think that we are better than this. Sadly, one of those moments that would fundamentally change the way the country treats its own has been scuttled by ignorance. And I have to tell you: I feel sick about it.

Thankfully, I have health insurance so if I feel worse tomorrow I can see a doctor. Which is more than I can say for some voters in Massachusetts.

Well that was fun. Back home, in my hotel room, after the Vikings finished cleaning their cleats on Tony Romo’s teeth, 34-3. I am hoarse and exhausted from screaming and howling for 60 minutes straight.

There were some nail-biting moments early, but mostly, the Viking did exactly what they needed to do: take the wood to their shiny opponents and let the crowd rattle the Cowboys, destroying their ability to effectively audible.

That transformation took about five plays, when Vikings DE Ray Edwards engulfed Tony Romo and threw him down, like a rag doll, stripping the ball, while 70,000 of us screamed our approval.

There were a lot of “ouch” going around yesterday. And we were on the giving end, for once. Just as I had hoped would happen; believed would happen, even.

Now, I head home and the team heads to New Orleans, as a touchdown-plus underdog. The same experts that didn’t give us a chance against the Cowboys are already eulogizing my team. No chance, again.

Fair enough.

It’s the night before the big game, in Minneapolis. Usually I am a bundle of nerves, but today not so much. I am staying at the Cowboys hotel and their fans are littering the lobby like…litter. Lacquered, leather-jacketed, frosted tips and French manicured— and even the women look phony baloney.

The intensity of a rabid fan base is scary and can help a team build momentum in a big game. But Cowboys fans on the road? Yeah, not so much. They can barely stand to walk three blocks from the hotel, huddled in the lobby like grinning dopes with epically terrible haircuts and cellphones that play Toby Keith songs.

A few weeks ago, after that Bears debacle, I fetched my cross from the closet and began dragging it around the apartment during one of my more pitiable diatribes, about how my teams always choke in the clutch and how that made me a loser.

GG told me to zip it. She says that I project negative energy and that my fear of the Vikings screwing up is projecting failure upon the team, sometimes causing it to mess up. Not me alone, but the sum total of all of the team’s fans—hundreds of thousands of people just as negative as me. It’s an interesting point.

I have been filled with fear and dread before and during Vikings game for my entire life. Unless I am seeing them live and in the Metrodome, I do not enjoy any part of the games other than an occasional successful outcome.

The book “Fever Pitch” by Nick Hornby could have been written about my own childhood; everything down to the cover image, of a small boy, standing at a sporting event with clenched fists. Wiki the plot. I’m too lazy to synopsize.

I have to give GG credit where it’s due; usually her contribution to sports commentary is repeatedly saying how ugly and cheesy Derek Jeter is. And she’s all mine.

This time just feels different. To begin with I am here with my friend Mikey, who has seen his (and yours too) share of sports failures. His dedication is nearly heroic. I came from NY to Minneapolis. He came from the UK. For the second time in five weeks.

We’ve been drinking and eating steak and I am like, fuck the fear. I am planning on having fun tomorrow, regardless of whether we win or lose. The crazy thing is, I actually believe that we’ll win.

I’m calm and I’m confident. For once. I have never said that aloud before—because I considered it a jinx. But I’m done carrying superstitions around, too. (So GG if you’re reading this, you don’t need to wear the Helga horns at yoga.)

Home and playing in the most chaotic, cacophonous sports venue in the US, a place so loud that it breeds a kind of insanity, the Vikings just have to go out and do their part, play within themselves and play like men and make the Cowboys feel every bit of contact. That is what I have always implored them to do. My new rallying cry? Just win, baby. Do that and I promise not to fear the worst.

One win and everything changes, right in front of my eyes. I believe it will.

Believe it or not.

Canadians love me. That much is not in dispute. Throughout the years I have encountered Canadians and folks living in Canada (aka Faux-nadians) and found them to be, generally, more pleasant and intelligent than Americans. Interested, interesting. I let them know that often and they, usually, appreciate it. Because a compliment from a sincere individual such as myself is invaluable in these trying times.

But, as I sit here in Newark Liberty airport and await my flight to Minneapolis, I look to my left (where squat, sweaty Americans appear to be eating toothpicks, while waiting for a flight to Sioux Falls, SD) and to my right (have fun in Omaha, hairy-faced lady and short-limbed, sexually ambiguous child) and have come to a conclusion that may halve (at least) my appeal North of the Border:

To survive, America needs to jumpstart our gene pool by filtering in more intelligent, kinder human beings for us to mate with (obviously not me because I’m already taken and I hate kids…except for yours.) The U.S. is not too dissimilar to a big dumb dog that sits around all day licking its own nuts, so to speak. We just want Canada to be our nuts for a few decades. So to speak.

That’s the general idea, anyway; the 100,000-mile view, as they say in marketing terms. And so, until my laptop battery dies, I am recording my idea in a top-secret plan called, “Operation Take Over Canada and Make Babies with the Good Parts” that I will be forwarded to President Obama shortly after I land.

My proposal begins with the US states that matter: New York, California and a few others. We then carve up Canada, in a big public ceremony, broadcast on the Logo network (hey, those poor people need some programming).

Afterward, we send the Salvation Army and the KISS Army up there to defeat the Canadian armed forces, and basically set up camp. A mating camp. (wink wink)

New York gets the first two choices, since we’re the best and smartest. We will take Toronto and Vancouver. Plenty to see and do there, certainly. California can have Calgary, Minnesota can overtake Montreal…. um…let’s see, Massachusetts can adopt Quebec and, basically we will give our hillbilly states like Texas those flat ones their Canadian counterparts—Saskatoon and Medicine Hat and, hey, does anyone know if there is still a place called Winnipeg? Please get back to me on that.

And what do the Canadians gets out of this shotgun marriage? Well, shotguns, for one. And handguns, illiteracy, a crumbling health plan, crystal meth, the Jersey Shore kids, and all of those great things that make America the “fuck, yeah!” capital of the world. Plus, we’ll make them wool pom-pom hats because it’s cold up there. I’m told.

In 30 or 40 years, when we have a smarter, nicer and better-looking group of young ’uns, we can release Canada back into the wild.

Sure there are a few details need to be worked out. Namely, whether or not the Canadians even like us. But they will. I mean, who wouldn’t?

Okay, besides for me.

If Jay Leno had even a shred of decency he would pack his rack of denim shirts and mom jeans, give that D-talent Kevin Eubanks whatever cash is in his pocket and leave. Just go. No note telling NBC to go and fuck themselves. No goodbye announcement on his funny-as-a-crippled-midget television show. No nothing. Just hop in one of those stupid old cars and head home to wherever someone like him would live.

He has enough money. Why would he put a price tag on his dignity? After being publicly castrated by the network less than a year ago, the untalented, unfunny Leno, who is clearly worthy of your pity, is a victim too. He is being hung out to dry here by the network. But by quitting and leaving them with no viable plan, it could be Armageddon for the peacock. Wouldn’t that be awesome?

But he won’t. Mark my words, he’ll go back to The Tonight Show like the big-jawed doofus he is. And continue to make bad, unfunny jokes and entertain a bunch of older folks who are falling asleep from their medication. That is, when he isn’t making women (especially those of color) feel extremely uncomfortable and reinforcing gay stereotypes with his lazy patter. Except now people will see him as the villain, in denim shirts and mom jeans, driving his antique fire truck around California like a human H.R. Pufnstuf.

Meanwhile, Conan will be far better off, no matter where his journey takes him. He could’ve easily, sucked it up, moved a half-hour, and kept reminding himself that he was making tens of millions. People would’ve forgotten all about it. Why? Because he’s funny and likable, two things that Jay Leno is not.

But apparently, no one told those idiots at NBC.

So do you believe in ghosts? In my experience, most people will say ‘yes’ but with a goofy look on their faces. Presumably, so that if someone dissents, they can pretend that they were kidding. Har har har.

I never get that. If you believe in stuff, you believe in it. I do, certainly. I don’t need to see it, either; if you saw it, and I trust you, I will believe your story, one hundred percent.  Besides, I used to live in an abbey in Wroxton, England and it was haunted. But mostly harmless shenanigans. Except for that demon vampire tween. She was so not fun.

The bones of the building dated back to 1215; it was used as a chillout pad by Henry VIII and had more than a few people die within its walls. When we moved in, we were alerted to the fact that there were some individuals and a pack of dogs still around. I was a stupid 21 year-old. That actually sounded good.

As you know, I will watch any show with the words “ghost” or “haunted” in its title. In the past, we have also discussed how my love of “Ghosthunters” has little to do with paranormal activity, and much to do with cast camaraderie and, more recently, investigator trainee Kris Williams, virtually the only attractive female paranormal investigator in history.

But, other than a lot of, “did you see that?” and “Dude, someone is touching me!” those shows provide virtually no smoking guns, which doesn’t prove or disprove anything. Because, irrespective of what other people think, you either believe in such things or you don’t.

Did I say something funny?