I am counting the minutes until kick-off.

It’s Super Bowl Sunday, and I am heady – HEADY, I tell you! – with anticipation. I am so looking forward to kicking off my Nikes and hunkering down on the sofa – six-packs of Bud Light and Pepsi within reach, bags of Doritos at the ready – for five full hours of super-duper fun!

Ooooh! I just can’t wait for the big game. It’s so thrilling when two great teams like the, uh – well, you know who they are – go mano a mano, helmet to helmet on the field for glory, honor, a $70K-per-player bonus and big, gaudy rings.

Forget Easter or Mother’s Day. This is the best Sunday of the year.

I just love all the hitting and grunting and sweating. Oh, and I adore it when they fight! When one guy throws a late hit and the other guy gets mad, and they duke it out right there on the sidelines, and all those fans with painted beer bellies cheer and clap with unbridled joy. It just doesn’t get any better than that.

And the NFL cheerleaders! Don’t me started. I LOVE those little outfits they wear and the glittery pompons and the way their hair flips around when they :

OK. That’s enough.

You know and I know I’m lying like a rug.

I don’t like football. There, I said it. After decades of feigning interest in what occurs on the gridiron, I am finally coming clean.

Football no longer interests me, if it ever did at all.

Oh, I’ll get excited when the home team makes a run at the playoffs or gets invited to a bowl game. I’ll put on the colors and hop on the bandwagon then, especially if there’s a tailgate party with beer and barbecue involved.

But to spend four-plus hours watching two teams I don’t even share geography with pummel each other, when I could be watching the Bravo channel?

Uh, no.

But I do love the commercials.

Every year, I wait with baited breath for advertisers to roll out their best ideas of the year, those $2-plus million dollar moments everyone will be talking about come Monday morning.

I’m anxious to see if anyone will reach the standard of excellence set years ago by the Budweiser-croaking frogs or Spuds MacKenzie. Or when that adorable little boy offered his Coke to a limping Mean Joe Green and then Green threw the kid his jersey in gratitude! There wasn’t a dry eye in my house. Or the one when the Clydesdales played that game of football out in the snow?

You gotta love the classics.

This year, the pre-game buzz on commercials vying for “best of” honors includes youngsters like Jessica Simpson promoting cheesy crust at Pizza Hut and Kevin Federline rapping for Nationwide Mutual Insurance.

Excuse me?

Anheuser-Busch is rolling out multiple spots featuring Carlos Mencia and Jay-Z.

Who?

And for viewers past the age of – say – 22, there’s Robert Goulet for Emerald Nuts.

What?! Sir Lancelot himself? The man who melted Julie Andrews’ butter with his rendition of “If Ever I Would Leave You”? Bob Goulet shilling cashews?

Now THAT’S nuts.

Perhaps most disturbing of all is the commercial for an unnamed antihypertensive drug, featuring a villainous “posse” of risk factors – blood pressure, diabetes, weight problems, high cholesterol – that pummels an unsuspecting, presumably middle-aged heart in a dark alley.

“Is your heart at risk of an attack?” the narrator will ask.

(Hello!? I’ve been sedentary for five hours eating chips and queso dip all day!)

Suddenly, the game doesn’t sound that super, after all.

I wonder what’s on Bravo tonight.