A reminder to my fellow introverts this season: The international sign of holiday-party social distress is to hang a candy cane from your left ear; one of your fellow wallflowers will be over immediately to rescue you. That's the LEFT ear. Hang it from your right ear, especially within six feet of mistletoe, and you're in for one wild night, my friend.

Look, guys, having a belly that shakes like a bowlful of jelly when you laugh is one thing. But even Clement Moore would agree that it's not nearly so endearing if it does so when you cough, sneeze, struggle out of your recliner chair, stomp your boots on the front-door mat, brush your teeth or blink your eyes.

Nebraska-Oklahoma -- Once more, with feeling

I'm not a native Nebraskan and was still acclimating myself to the strange ways of this land when one day about 20 years ago I walked into an electronics store in Lincoln and saw a small but animated crowd gathered in front of a bank of televisions on the back wall. Oh man, I thought as I hustled back there: The president's been shot, the stock market crashed, someone figured out how to unscramble the naked channel.

But no. The store was just showing a video of the 1971 Nebraska-Oklahoma football game, and a dozen or so people had mustered there to watch the then-20-year-old game. I suspect some of these people actually wandered in off the street in a catatonic state, not quite knowing to what they were being summoned but knowing it was essential. I swear, at least three or four of 'em lip-synced along with Husker announcer Lyell Bremser's undeniably epic, spine-tingling call of Johnny Rodgers' TD punt return (http://bit.ly/1toRGd) "Holy moly, man, woman and child, did that put 'em in the aisles! Johnny the Jet Rodgers just tore 'em loose from their shoes!"

Nebraska won the Game of the Century 35-31 and later the national title. And some 39 years later, you still can gather a crowd of Nebraskans anytime, anywhere, by airing the game.

Nebraska is thick with nostalgia this week, as the Huskers play Oklahoma for the last time as conference opponents on Saturday. The rivalry, once one of the nation's best, actually died years ago when the Big Eight was expanded to the Big 12 and the two teams no longer met every year. We blame those bastards from Texas.

Be that as it may, Nebraskans are in a warm, reflective mood. Why, we don't even want to kill Dan Beebe anymore. Maybe just break his legs. Or arrange a date for him with A&M's Tony Jerod-Eddie (warning, Dan: He's all hands.)

There's been a lot of talk this week about the respect and admiration between Oklahoma's and Nebraska's football programs and fans. I don't know about that. In the household in which I was raised, I was 20 years old before I realized OU's coach wasn't actually named That Son of a Bitch Switzer.

Ah, Barry Switzer. The Bootlegger's Boy. He was yin to Tom Osborne's yang; Saturday night to Sunday morning; darkness to the light; hard drinker to the teetotaler; Arkansas snake-oil salesman to the dignified Midwesterner for whom "dadgummit" was an expletive. More to the point, Barry pretty much owned Tom, racking up a 12-5 record against him.

Switzer told a story once about some typical late-game Sooner magic that led to an OU victory in Lincoln. It was cold and late in the day by the time Switzer made his way off the field. He looked up into the corner of the stadium, where a group of forlorn Nebraska fans still sat, huddled against the bitter wind and even bitterer defeat. As he surveyed the scene, Switzer said, each fan slowly but defiantly raised a middle finger in his direction. Men, women, children, grandmothers. Switzer laughed uproariously as he told the story. No doubt he embellished considerably, but like all good story tellers, Barry's not one to let the truth get in the way of a good tale.

And speaking of good tales, some of the now-almost-elderly men who played in the early 70s have been on local radio shows telling war stories about the rivalry and the old Big 8. Among their observations: There's way too much wringing of hands and whining about the referee-baiting antics of our current coach. Why, he's a veritable milquetoast compared to the great Bob Devaney. Once Coach Devaney pistol-whipped a side judge to within an inch of his life, he did, and then had the man, barely conscious and propped up in a wheelchair, join him for a drink at the Legion afterward.

Well, enough nostalgia. On Saturday, we'll root for a Husker win, of course. But, win or lose, we'll hope for a game that fans still will be watching 40 years from now, maybe one with its own iconic play like that Johnny Rodgers' punt return. How about a Rex Burkhead-to-Cody-Green-touchdown pass, with 2:20 to play, to take a 28-24 lead? Then, to ice the game, a 47-yard pick-6 by Prince Amukamara. Final: 35-24.

You heard it here first.

Have you heard what the gays are up to now?

I guess I missed the news that Pat Robertson had shuffled off this mortal coil and to his eternal damnation at the hands of the Satan of his fevered nightmares -- the one who's gay, liberal, secularly humanistic and, of course, FABULOOUUS! Because if Pat's still alive, how did he let some cracker lawmaker from Virginia get ahead of him on this (http://bit.ly/dIJUvx)?

And, by the way, isn't it time we require the homosexuals to post their "wide-scale agenda" online somewhere so we can keep track of what they're up to? Because damn, they're busy. It's all we straight folk can do just to get through the day. We're sure poorly organized -- can't seem to get it together on a Heterosexual Agenda, can we? Meantime, the homosexuals are out there, day in and day out, pushing that Big Gay Agenda of theirs. I don't know how they do it. But I'm sure glad the likes of Eugene Delgaudio are keeping track.

Victoria's Secret, X's & O's, T&A -- Oh, Do I Have Your Attention Now?

Something called "The Victoria's Secret Fashion Show" was on television the other night. To borrow from Bill Clinton's explanation of his marijuana use: I watched it, but I did not open my eyes.

Actually, I just saw the previews, but I think I got the gist.

If I know what’s good for me – and I do – I know I’m supposed to say – and so I will – that these models do nothing for me.

Nada. Zilch. Nuttin’

Not only do I not find them attractive, they’re quite repulsive. Why, I haven’t seen that much tanned hide since my fifth-grade class's tour of the leather factory.

Which is what these women will look like in about 25 years, by the way. Leather.

Once you get past the obvious appeal of the Victoria's Secret models, then what, guys? Is there a one of them you can imagine eating a meal with? (Do they even eat? Or just sit there, picking at their salad, rolling their eyes, sighing heavily and glaring at you while you finish off a medium pizza by yourself?) Can you imagine spending eight hours in a car with one of them? Could any of them survive a Nebraska winter?

OK, perhaps I doth protest too much. Sure, these women do something for me. Just not enough. They're certainly beautiful and well-proportioned, and there was a time when I would have ogled their barely clad bodies like a typical immature pig. But I’m a more mature pig now, which means that whenever I see a “perfect body,” whether male or female, on TV or at my gym, I can’t help but think how fleeting and ephemeral it all is. Everybody’s body lets them down, disappoints them, turns on them even, often becomes their outright enemy. Sagging and settling, spreading and widening.

Time is a great equalizer, and by 30, 40, or whenever, those of us who were never 10's, even at age 20, at least have this comfort: We aren’t tormented by what used to be. We long ago came to terms with living in an imperfect body.

Still, I presume plenty of people watched “The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.” To paraphrase H.L. Mencken, nobody ever went broke underestimating the piggishness of us men.

Speaking of which, there was this headline in Bloomberg Business News last week: “The New Skins Game: The Lingerie Football League is a rarity in sports – a women’s professional league that’s actually growing.”

The 10-team league grew out of a Super Bowl halftime show; it has a television contract with MTV2 and profits are up 260 percent over last year, reports the league’s founder. The teams have names like the Denver Dream, the Orlando Fantasy, the Baltimore Charm.

Hmm. Wonder why the Lingerie Football League is succeeding where other professional women’s sports have failed? Well, is there something about the words “lingerie” and “football” you don’t understand?

The league is more about T & A than X’s & O’s, of course. In fact, players’ contracts note one of the occupational hazards: "Player has been advised and hereby acknowledges that Player's participation in the Event and the related practice sessions and Player's services and performances hereunder may involve accidental nudity. In light of the foregoing, Player knowingly and voluntarily agrees to provide Player's services hereunder and has no objection to providing services involving Player's accidental nudity."

Granted, an identical provision was included in Ndamukong Suh’s contract, but that's a different matter entirely: He’s a huge man, and sometimes the fabric in his uniform just can’t handle the tensile pressure.

The league got additional, and no doubt welcome, publicity recently when the mayor of Bible-belt Oklahoma City blocked an effort to locate a team there.

I did Google some images and video of the Lingerie Football League (for research purposes only) and I will say this: These women are, in fact, playing football. Tackle football. They look pretty tough to me. And accidental nudity looks pretty damn likely.

As for those Victoria’s Secret models, they look like a different species than the rest of us. Fragile, phony, plastic. They make me nervous and edgy, as if to bump into one would risk shattering her into millions of tiny little pieces -- beautiful pieces, to be sure, but pieces nonetheless. You’d have to put her back together -- like, you know, a model kit. Or if you accidentally elbowed one of the more pneumatically built ones, you might puncture her and send her blowing crazily around the room like a rapidly deflating helium balloon.

No, like I said, they're not my type at all. I prefer a real woman -- one who can stand her ground in a stiff winter wind; be a good road-trip companion, with only the occasional need for intervention by a state trooper; and fight me tooth and nail for the last piece of takeout pizza. As for the nudity, I'll take it accidental or on purpose -- any way I can get it.

I have one of those women already – or at least I do until she reads this.

A holiday money saving tip: Once a week, make a meal from whatever you can sneak out of your office's food-bank collection. You have to shove items into your pockets or purse quickly so as not to get caught, so you can't be choosy. But be creative. Tonight, it's a creamed corn, mandarin orange, green bean and bowtie pasta dish with graham cracker crust and a mixture of Velveeta and marshmallows melted on top. Mmm.

I understand that "Star Wars" nerds have grown up -- well, gotten older anyway -- and now run the nation's newsrooms. Still, all the attention this week to Chewbacca's bodily functions is inexplicable and excessive, don't you think? Oh, wait a sec. That's a WookieeLeak. Never mind then.