JEFF JOHNSON PICKS YOUR BETS - NFL PLAYOFFS ROUND ONE

You can't talk about the Dolphins and former Jet Chad Pennington's miraculous season (he should be thanking the Wildcat offense and teammates Ronnie Brown and Ricky Williams) without getting very long-winded about the Jets. Brett Favre is like an alcoholic except for interceptions. Wait, it's already been established that he's an alcoholic and ex Vicodin abuser too. But on the heels of their season-ending slump, it's become fashionable to curse him as the reason the Jets' season tanked. Of course, no one was saying this when the Jets were 8-3 a little over a month ago, after he'd helped the team win their two biggest games—back-to-back, against the Patriots and the unbeaten (at the time) Titans—of this century. Back then jingoistic rabble-rousers like the Post's Steve Serby, were jubilantly scribbling about Favre Fever instead of asking for his head.

Photo: "Fired Broncos Coach Mike Shanahan, pictured in a tooth-showing competition with John Elway, rumored to be in contention for Jets head coaching job. His Broncos team seemed to fake a million injuries last time they faced (and beat) the Jets."

When the team subsequently fell apart (and really, it takes a team to fall apart the way the Jets did), going 1 and 4 in their last five games, Favre fell off the wagon, reverting to the superhero mentality that causes his brain to short circuit and indiscriminately toss wounded ducks to any player not wearing a Jets jersey.

His bad.

Still he had help. The Jets abandoned the run like Johnny Cash left his first wife. See this NY Times' commenter's dissection of the Jets run vs. pass attempts/success. And after that heralded road win against the Titans, when the team began to shit the bed (such a heinous, yet accurate phrase), it wasn't Brett Favre, after all, who couldn't catch Broncos 43rd-string fullback Peyton Hillis. This hayseed came to town and became a 129-yard (first time in his rookie season over the century mark, by the way), on-the-road rusher—then flexed his biceps retardedly in the home team's end zone.

The Jets had no luck stopping anyone's tight ends, and Bronco Tony Scheffler was no exception, gaining 90 yards in receptions that day. Honorable mention goes to Jet offensive coordinator Brian Schottenheimer and WR Brad Smith for conjuring up a horrendous lateral that turned into a Broncos fumble recovery for a TD (questionable call by the refs). And even though it was early in their slide, you could feel the Jets season end on that play alone.

The following week, 49er Shaun Hill, who should be bartending and paying child support to aerobics instructors in Lake Havasu, completed 28 passes against the Jets defense. Favre didn't line up on D that day.

Then Bills second-string scrub JP Losman came down to the Meadowlands and kept his non-playoff squad in the game for 59 minutes (he got a lot of help from second-string running back Fred Jackson who carried six Jets 11 yards on his back into the end zone), before Jets defenders Abram Elam and Shaun Ellis saved the day (and, temporarily the season), turning a Losman fumble into a game-winning TD.

On a side note, male fans also tried to get one another pregnant.

The next week Favre wasn't playing D either, when Seahawk Maurice "Gibb" Morris churned out 116 rushing yards and QB Seneca Wallace was able to effectively manage the game in a blizzard. Making matters worse, ex-coach Mangini was in ultra-wuss mode when it came to decision making. Hey Eric, next time you have a squad with over $100 million worth of free agents who are fizzling out at year's end driving to the opponent's two-yard line at the opening of the game, let them try to score a touchdown. Also, don't yank your field goal kicker off the field for a punt, either. And while we're at it, throw down a challenge flag next time a Dolphin takes a kickoff a step out of the end zone and then backs in again, downs it and no one says anything. And, okay, go for it on 4th and 2 when you have NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE. Show some guts.

(By the way on Favre's final 2008 interception, Coles didn't even run his route. Watch the tape. He completely stopped. And Cotchery crocodiled a couple of huge catches, too.)

One might say Favre's lack of offensive prowess kept the defense on the field too long. That's fair, but the defense over those last games rarely stopped anyone when it was meaningful. After showing so much promise, both Favre and the Jets sucked. When destiny called, the Jets answered by asking if it was a prank, then shouting that the call was being traced then hanging up and promptly falling asleep. With the exception of Leon Washington, Thomas Jones, and placekicker Jay Feely, the team played with zero passion.

Still it's reductive and sad for professionals like Steve Serby and Allen Barra to pin 100 percent of the blame on Favre. Barra, who prides himself on communicating the nuances of sports should know better. And Serby, who collects a paycheck for being the Post's sportswriting version of Andrea Peyser, is all hyperbole and zero common sense. Witness his most recent assault: The Jets begin the new year trapped in the same black hole occupied by the 0-16 Lions, groping in the darkness, with little to offer their next savior other than Johnson's millions.

Are you high, Serby? They have an amazing offensive line, two great running backs, some great defenders, and a great young tight end, all of whom need coaching. Oh, an old quarterback who might be decent if he works out with the team throughout the offseason, earns their trust and establishes at least some semblance of chemistry, and doesn't turn into a headcase in the process.

I'm betting Favre resigns, though. Why come back to such a nightmare?

Why do I care anyway? Why not move onto some new business? Because after being a massive flake, Favre was dicked over by some Douglas C. Neidermeyer-esque clowns in Green Bay.

And also because I made a t-shirt I hoped to hawk to people caught up in the frenzy. It was a hare-brained scheme that ended as poorly as the Jets season.

I wandered into the Giants Stadium parking lot on a Sunday back in September when the Jets had stumbled to a 1-2 record, and no one had any faith in Favre. The Jets would beat Arizona that day 56-35, and I suspect I might have had a lot more takers following the game had I not been nabbed by security.

Most Jets fans carry themselves in a hyper-defensive, defeated manner, and the Brett Favre Folk Implosion has been the perfect Christmas gift for them. They're not happy unless they believe all hope is lost, and the whole world is against them. Having their team get soundly defeated on the last game of the season by—to their minds at least—the most steady QB that their team ever gave away is pure ecstasy.

The conflict of finishing with an OK record—9 and 7—after only winning four games the previous season—yet missing the playoffs, having their head coach fired, and having a great QB tank on them, completely fits their disposition. The mindset of a Jets fan is that of the tortured soul who dreams that his girlfriend gave Howard Stern oral sex, so he wakes up and immediately breaks up with her. Only he's conflicted because more than ten years after his relevance, Howard Stern is still a massive legend in his mind—a barometer for what his sense of humor should consist of. And the blow-jobber isn't actually his girlfriend. She's a girl named Vicki whom he's had a crush on for 14 years but is too shy to talk to so his life is subsequently very angry, and he often disparages her behind her his back and then feels very guilty about it. Eventually, he winds up grinding some Tegretol over a little ditchweed, smoking it, going Rip Van Winkle for most of his adulthood, and sobering up when he's 52. If I am off-base about this, just go back to Glass Houses by Billy Joel and parse his lyrics for Jets fan truths. They're sure to be there. Jets = Leyna.

In fact, it would not be out of place to hear a Jets lifer utter that he'd give anything to bounce a fancy Mercedes off a couple of trees in the Hamptons after imbibing too much, no matter what the consequences. This season, week by week, I found myself getting pulled into that universe, and liking it, sadly enough.

Anyway, the area around Giants Stadium (really, it is perfect that the Jets play in a stadium named for the city's other team) is like a market in Calcutta, only with hundreds and hundreds of RVs and modified short buses (this is no coincidence, either), and our adult male crybabies grilling meat and blasting the Steve Miller Band. I loaded a heavy-gauge IKEA shopping bag with the shirts and trudged through the madness but guys only shook their heads at me or acted like I was trying to rip them off.

They were, at the time, very unconvinced about the Favre experiment, and as such had worked out their own alternative t-shirt pricing plans in their heads: "Two bucks," "Do I get a free kick in the nuts, if I buy it, too?" "A quarter," "Fuck you," "Not interested…"

Other guys just wanted to show that they could drive a hard bargain.

Guy: How much for the shirt?
Me: Ten bucks.
Guy: Ten cents? (Trying to get friends to laugh).
Me: Ha. Ten bucks.
Guy: Nope. No thanks. I'll buy one from you when they're five.

I may have lowered my prices later, but not for a guy who was so matter-of-fact that my prices were shitty and that he'd be getting a deal.

Eventually, I got a little rally going and sold about a dozen in the span of an hour, well before the game. As the parking lot got even more full, and people had more to drink, they warmed up to the idea of the shirt, and their insults, if they offered any, became a bit more creative, as well.

Hearing someone behind me shout, "Hey," I turned to see a throng of six yellow-security-jacketed shlubs converging. All the Jets fans in their little half-tents relished the free drama. It began raining.

Security Hump: What's in the bag there fella?
Me: Just some shirts.
Security Hump: You can't be doing that here. (Getting on walkie talkie).
Me: Yep. Sorry. I've never done this before.
Security Hump: Obviously.

I didn't ask what was going to happen to me. And I didn't volunteer any more information. I kept my yap shut, hoping to give them as little reason as possible to get all rent-a-cop on me. I knew that my idiotic dream was over.

In the end, they made me throw the shirts in the back of a van, then drove me down to the bowels of the stadium. Bonus: I could see the field. Then they walked me to the left toward a little police station-type place, and took the bag of shirts to the right to some undisclosed location.

After taking my picture and making me sign a letter about not returning to the stadium unless I wrote them and asked for permission, they let me go. No fine. But no returning of my precious shirts, either. I walked up and out of the stadium, and into the rain, and convinced a NJ Transit driver dropping off fans to take me back into the city.

Driver: You're leaving now? The game hasn't started.
Me: Ah, my friend just called and has the flu. Can't make it. It would suck being here by myself.

She made me duck down as she drove out of the stadium—another potential no-no, apparently—and soon enough I was at Penn Station.

The Jets, as you know, got many people believing that they'd be Super Bowl bound. But, as the seasoned Jets fan knows, it was all just another elaborate rug-pull designed to make them look stupid and feel depressed.

Here's the picks for this weekend:

Atlanta at Arizona – It's difficult to know which Cardinals team will show up. I'm predicting it is the one that gets ass-kicked.

Colts at Chargers—Every AFC season ends this way it seems. I am praying the Chargers win, but they are shitty against the pass and Peyton Manning might destroy them. Colts win unless little sparkplug Darren Sproles does something cool and weird.

Baltimore at Miami—Baltimore. By a field goal.

Philadelphia at Minnesota—Philly.

That's every road team winning. Which won't happen. So don't put any money down based on this guesswork.

JEFF JOHNSON