Super Bowl Media Day and the State of the Non-Union Address make this day more special than a Reuben sandwich with a glass of Stella Artois

OK, the calendar is littered with big days – Christmas, Groundhog Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, Memorial Day, The Fourth of July, Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, New Year’s Day, the Super Bowl, and Casimir Pulaski Day.

Why the latter? Casimir is my middle name. Hell, it was almost my first name. Thanks, Mom, for saving my butt even before you started changing my diaper.

However, on the calendar of events, today ain’t too shabby.

In fact, today features a day-night doubleheader.

Get your popcorn ready.

Actually, you already missed the Super Bowl Media Day festivities. So order a small popcorn.

Super Bowl Media Day is the weirdest, wackiest and most irrelevant day on the sports calendar.

You know the drill: Thousands of media members, alleged media members, ex-ballers, and hotties elbow one another in the ribs to ask inane and nonsensical questions of players and coaches.

Today’s circus, which did feature plenty of clowns but no elephants (unless you count the linemen), was staged in Newark’s Chris Christie-sized Prudential Center.

The Seattle Seahawks’ media session was, of course, The Richard Sherman Show. The cocky and mouthy cornerback and former communications major at Stanford said he loves Media Day.

Alert the media, conventional and social, on that bit of shocking news.

The Denver Broncos’ media session spotlighted Peyton Manning, the ancient quarterback who’s still passing fancy even though his spirals wobble like drunken ducks and sputter at low RPMs.

Everybody on this planet, outside of a few folks in Belarus, wants to know if Sunday’s Supe Bowl will make or break Manning’s legacy.

Except for Manning.

“I thought you had to be like 70 to have a legacy,” he said. Which leaves him about three years shy of getting one.

By the way, Peyton the rogue rebel was wearing a towel over his shoulder because he’s a Reebok guy in a Nike league.

If you’re still reading this rib-tickling epistle at this point, the nightcap of today’s doubleheader is the State of the Non-Union Address.

Yep, in case your attention span wandered, Barack Obama still is the president.

Technically, he still holds the office but he isn’t a real president anymore — being held hostage by a divided Congress as well as his aloof lack of leadership.

In case you fall asleep early on your recliner while watching Wheel of Fortune and wondering who hijacked Vanna White’s face (Bruce Jenner?), Obama likely will identify measures where he and
Congress can cooperate; press issues that will distinguish him and Democrats from Republicans in an election year; and also make a case for acting alone.

Illustrating his willingness to act on his own, the White House says Obama will announce that he will sign an executive order increasing the minimum wage from $7.25 to $10.10 for new federal contracts.

But the executive order will have more of a ripple than a tsunami effect.

The measure affects only future contracts, not existing ones, and would only apply to contract renewals if other terms of the agreement changed. As a result, the order would benefit only about 4.7 workers.

Obama’s address undoubtedly will be wrapped in a unifying theme: The federal government can play a key Big Brother role in increasing opportunities for Americans who have been left behind, unable to benefit from a recovering economy.

Yet, at the core of the address, the president likely will deliver a split message.

Even as he argues that low income Americans and many in the middle class lack the means to achieve upward mobility, it’s a slam dunk that Obama will take credit for an economy that by many indicators is somehow gaining strength under his watch.

Granted, that recovery remains elusive to many Americans.

But why quibble over details?

Also, if you’re scoring from home, count how many more times the Democrats stand to applaud than the Republicans.

That’s because the Obama Administration equips the Democrats’ seats with Jack-In-The-Box springs.

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Wannabe bad boy Justin Bieber pathetically drag racing to hell

I believe we all are familiar with the script … child star turned preening train wreck of self-destruction apparently is playing on an endless loop.

Yep, fame at a tender age evidently fries your brain cells like an egg and cracks your moral compass like, well, an egg.

Guess we can call Justin Bieber The Egg Man.

Could have done so for some time.

What I find hysterical about this pipsqueak is that he is working so hard and foolishly at being a bad boy.

He has about as much chance of being a bad boy as he does swimming across the Atlantic underwater while towing Lindsay Lohan by her hair.

You can’t be a bad boy when you look like a little girl.

And now the pathetic Biebz is back on the streets.

After a wild night in Miami Beach, the falling pop star, who was arrested early Thursday for drag racing and DUI, exited a correctional center, wearing a hoodie and waving to fans.

It was the end of a drug and booze-filled escapade that involved fast cars, lots of partying, plenty of stupidity and false bravado and, ultimately, police.

R&B artist Khalil, whoever the hell he is, also was arrested.

It all started with Bieber in a rented yellow Lamborghini drag racing Khalil in a red Ferrari – hot wheels spinning into hot water.

In an Instagram photo before the incident, Khalil wrote: “Miami nights ridin thru yo city in that hot wheel.”

I guess drag racing in a 1963 Mercury Comet and a 1971 Ford Pinto wouldn’t have had the same social media appeal.

Bieber, 19 going on 12, was booked at Miami Beach police headquarters on charges of driving under the influence, driving with an expired license and resisting arrest without violence.

He cursed out the arresting officer, then admitted to having beer, pot and prescription drugs in his system.

Why would someone so instantly and readily confess to all that?

Two reasons: 1) He’s a moron drunk/stoned out of his gourd. 2) He’s pathetically trying to burnish his bad boy resume.

According to the arrest affidavit, Bieber smelled of alcohol, repeatedly dropped F-bombs and refused to cooperate with a police officer who had ordered him to put his hands on his car during a cursory pat-down.

And this all comes on the heels of his recent egg incident.

Earlier this month, Bieber’s home was searched after he was thought to have pelted a neighbor’s home with eggs.

Yep, call him The Egg Man.

With egg on his face.

This Super Bowl could be the Superdooper Bowl

Contrary to popular belief, Super Bowls don’t always suck.

Granted, once upon a time it seemed as if each Super Bowl was a drumstick turkey big enough for an NFL lineman to bench press.

But recent Super Bowls have had considerably more drama than what actress is wearing what dress on the SAG Awards red carpet.

This year’s Super Bowl matchup between the Denver Broncos and the Seattle Seahawks on Feb. 2 at MetLife Stadium could be a real firecracker unless a polar vortex smothers North Jersey that evening.

Seattle was the top-seeded NFC team; Denver the top-seeded AFC team.

This is a classic showdown of clubs that compiled NFL-best 15-3 records — potentially a mythic clash of Troy vs. Sparta proportion.

The Seahawks, featuring loquacious cornerback Richard Sherman headlining a star-studded secondary, have the league’s best defense that gave up a league-low 14.4 points and 273.6 yards per game this season.

The Broncos, featuring legendary quarterback, pitchman and Omaha Chamber of Commerce spokesman Peyton Manning and a corps of receivers deeper than a Mensa philosophical thread, have the league’s best offense that scored an NFL-record 37.9 points per game (becoming the first team to top 600 points), and amassed a league-high 457.3 yards per game.

You don’t need Nostradamus or Jimmy The Greek whispering in your ear to figure out that something has to give.

Lawyer for retired cop charged with killing a texting Florida moviegoer mounts a popcorn defense holstered to Stand Your Ground

It seems to me that the folks in Florida should put Stand Your Ground on shaky ground.

Because evidently it can be a license to kill.

And God knows, we have plenty of blood-soaked killing fields in our country without giving people with itchy trigger fingers a license to scratch them.

After a retired Tampa cop fatally shot a texting moviegoer, his lawyer mounted a popcorn defense Tuesday that raised the ugly specter of Stand Your Ground.

Attorney Robert Escobar did not actually speak the words Stand Your Ground but his legal argument on behalf of 71-year-old Curtis Reeves at Tuesday’s preliminary hearing was the same as if he had uttered the name of the Florida law that says a person is justified in using deadly force if he or she reasonably believes they are in danger of death or great bodily harm.

“The alleged victim attacked him,” Escobar told the judge. “At that point in time, he has every right to defend himself.”

Apparently Escobar has a very broad definition of the word attack.

Escobar reported that 43-year-old Chad Oulson had thrown “an unknown object,” maybe a bag of popcorn, at Reeves.

”Which resulted in gunfire,” Escobar said.

Doesn’t it always?

After all, how much damage can a bag of popcorn do, even if it is buttered popcorn?

It definitely doesn’t pack the same concussive force of a block of granite or even a box of Raisinets.

Fortunately, Judge Lynn Tepper doesn’t share the same broad view of the word attack and was not impressed.

“It may or may not have been popcorn,” Tepper said. “An unknown object does not equal taking out a gun. It doesn’t warrant taking out a gun and firing it at someone’s chest.”

Tepper ordered Reeves held without bail on a charge of second-degree murder.

Nasty things happen in prisons.

Hopefully none of the cons assault Reeves with a bag of popcorn in the shower.

That would make the popcorn rather soggy.

And don’t you just hate that?

NFL playoffs more chalk than a big body outline

It had been forever and maybe longer since we could smell the sanity in the NFL’s four divisional-round playoff games.

The games all went chalk. Finally all the cream rose to the top. Talk about a miracle breaking a sweat.

Most years an underdog or two makes perjury out of reality, which most times in pro football is about as real as Cheez Whiz.

So now we have two marquee conference championship games featuring the four best teams in the league this coming Sunday when New England tangles with Denver in the AFC and San Francisco jousts with Seattle in the NFC.

Yep, Tom Brady arm wrestles Peyton Manning once again but believe it or not it has been seven years their last playoff aerial duel.

Meanwhile, the Niners and the Seahawks, who sport two of the best defenses in football and young guns in Colin Kaepernick and Russell Wilson, continue their division rivalry that has been as hot as a waffle iron.

Titanic matchups to determine which two teams get to freeze their asses off in a North Jersey Super Bowl.

A Bridge Over Troubled Water likely won’t be Chris Christie’s presidential campaign theme song

When times get rough and friends just can’t be found, could Chris Christie be pondering jumping off a bridge over troubled water?

That would make an even bigger splash in New Jersey than Hurricane Sandy.

But likely no need for that.

Barring evidence that directly implicates Christine in the political-retaliation Bridgegate, this scandal won’t flush his White House aspirations down the drain.

The first Republican presidential primary is two years away and people have short and superficial attention spans.

After all, Miley Cyrus could be married to Dennis Rodman AND Bruce Jenner by then.

The plague of Obamacare could kill us all by then.

And it’s not like the other leading 2016 presidential candidates don’t have more baggage than an airline terminal.

Hillary Clinton has Benghazi, Rand Paul apparently has plagiarized boring speeches, Ted Cruz reportedly was born in either Canada or Slovenia, and Marco Rubio evidently is totally useless unless he is overdosing on water.

By the way, how long until Bridget Anne Kelly gets her own reality TV show?

The now-fired Christie deputy chief of staff, a 4-foot-9 soccer mom of four, has been characterized as the culprit in the plot to gridlock the George Washington Bridge because she emailed the infamous “Time for some traffic problems in Fort Lee” after Fort Lee mayor Mark Sokolich had the audacity not to support Christie simply because fat people have no reason to live.

A rush to judgment doesn’t give the Eagles the verdict they wanted

Since the past NFL regular season made as much sense as our political leadership(?), why should the NFL playoffs be any different?

That was the case Saturday night in Philadelphia, where the once unthinkable become more thinkable than a Washington think tank.

What was that about the New Orleans Saints not being able to win outside, let alone in the cold?

Forget that as if you were just struck with amnesia.

The Saints had that covered by switching Gatorade flavors from orange to green and buying new NBA-grade road sweat suits.

Two options I am utilizing the next time I wrestle with snow and ice on my driveway during this Ice Station Zebra winter.

What was that about the Saints not being able to run the football (nobody asks them to run the basketball or the baseball) and the Eagles not being able to NOT run the football?

What was that about the Saints not being able to stop people from running the football and the Eagles not being able to NOT stop people from running the football?

Forget all of that as if you were just struck with dementia.

Coming into this game, the Eagles ran for 5.1 yards per carry. That was best in the NFL. The Saints allowed 4.6 yards per carry, which was 26th in the NFL.

Meanwhile, the Saints ran for 3.8 yards per carry. That was 26th in the NFL. The Eagles allowed 3.8 yards per carry, which was 4th in the NFL.

Total rushing yards last night: Saints 185, Eagles 80.

Can you imagine that?

Well, it didn’t happen because of sorcery or supernatural intrusion.

The Saints knew they had a size advantage against the Eagles’ defensive front, so they hammered the Birds with a scorched earth (tough to do on a cold night) ground game.

Their last two third-and-1 conversions of the evening ensured the Saints could wind down the clock all the way to three seconds and slowly bleed the Eagles to a whiter shade of pale before Shayne Graham kicked the game-winning 32-yard field goal as time expired.

The line of scrimmage was simply the difference in the Saints’ 26-24 victory.

Granted, the Eagles’ defensive scheme aided and abetted the Saints. The Birds overloaded against the Saints’ usually high-flying aerial circus and instead got eaten up on the ground.

Even if you pick your poison, that doesn’t make it any more benign to swallow.

Meanwhile Eagles’ fans can find some solace in that while Chip Kelly lost, he sure as hell didn’t lose like Andy Reid lost Saturday.

Big Red looked like a pathetically sad parade float as he watched his Kansas City Chiefs blow a 28-point second-half lead in getting shocked by the Indianapolis Colts 45-44.

Like the dungeons of hell, the agony of defeat harbors different dimensions of suffering.