Super Sunday, a truly American holiday that revolves around two truly American pastimes--football and commercials--was really super for at least one all-American family. This family was to be surprised by a visit from the Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol, which was prepared to give the unsuspecting people $10 million for their uncanny ability to put numerous stickers in the proper circles, squares and triangles, place a stamp on an envelope and mail it in with the blind faith that, although the odds of winning are as remote as the odds of an AFC team winning two Super Bowls in a row, somebody has to win and that somebody might be us.

Unfortunately, no one was home when the Prize Patrol knocked on their apartment door.

Traditionally, the Prize Patrol catches a winner who has just come out of the shower and is draped in a towel and suddenly exposed to at least 50 TV viewers (the other 129,999,950 Super Bowl viewers having left the room during the commercial interruption to make baloney sandwiches). And with proper American game show etiquette, the lucky person jumps around screaming as though being impaled by a rusty railroad spike or winning $10 million. Funny how reactions to pain and ecstasy can be so similar.

Meanwhile, the rest of the 100 million or so people who also managed to put all of those stickers in the right places and spent 32 cents on even a remote chance to quit the job, pay off the credit card debt and hire a maid, shrug and pop a beer to wash down the baloney sandwich. There's always next year. Or even next week for those of us who play lotteries.

But I stray from the point, which, quite frankly, I haven't determined yet. I suppose I could make a point about how most of us are always looking to get something for nothing, or in the case of the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes, $10 million for two minutes of labor-intensive sticker-sticking and 32 cents postage.

We think how easy life could be if we didn't have to worry about earning a living. I myself think about all the time I would have to dream and write books of fantasy and intrigue instead of articles about electronic toll collection systems and sanitary sewers. My wife thinks about all of the people she could help feed and house if she didn't have to spend her days documenting ocean freight cargo. My son, if he had any sense of finance at all, would think about all of the toys he could buy instead of having to play with the scant few hundred dozen he's already got.

I suppose I could make a point that life isn't supposed to be easy, and most of us are better served by not winning $10 million. When life is tough, we need to strive harder. We do things we'd never have done if we didn't have to, which in turn expands our horizons and makes us stronger and/or wiser.

But I find that I don't really want to make those points, because I'm sure that philosophy would go the way of the Bud Bowl if the Prize Patrol rolled up to my house or I hit the right Lotto numbers. I'm sure that I would quickly revert to the sensible mentality of my three-year-old son and think about all of the toys I could buy. Besides, this column started out about Super Sunday and really should get back there before too long.

Last week before the big game, I heard a radio DJ talking about a relatively new Super Sunday tradition. For some unknown reason, phony Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrols have been running around pretending to give $10 million away to unsuspecting all-American people who have just come out of the shower. They deck out a van with the appropriate banners, round up a camera crew and even make a giant mock check for $10 million just to fool people into thinking that their life will now be easy instead of hard.

I know you can't imagine why anyone would do this, to go to so much trouble to be such a jerk, but it is apparently becoming such a big part of Super Sunday that a national magazine published a picture of the real Prize Patrol just so people wouldn't be fooled.

All of this just goes to show what a big deal Super Sunday has become. What started out as a secondary championship football game has turned into a bona fide holiday marked by as many parties as New Year's Eve. The game has become the least of it, mainly because it is usually about as exciting as Bob Dole. The game is overwhelmed by its own hype, overblown television production, innovative and/or stupid TV commercials that cost as much as a moon orbiter, and even the half-time show which features a cast of hundreds and enough fireworks to blow up Iraq. Someone from another planet might even wonder if the game is the main event or just another sideshow attraction, like the Detroit Lions playing on Thanksgiving.

Though the game rarely seems to live up to its billing, Super Sunday has transcended the world of sports to become a holiday unto itself. I believe that we, as a nation, should go all the way, declare it an official national holiday and move it to Monday.

Just kidding. We get enough Monday night football during the regular season. Leave the game on Sunday but give us Monday off to recover nacho and pizza hangovers. If the nation can't afford another day of no school, no mail and no stock transactions, I recommend that we trade it even up for President's Day. Sure Washington and Lincoln were great guys, but what have they done for us lately? Maybe they led us in war and peace, but how far could they throw a football? How fast could they run the 40? How well could they pitch Nike and Gatorade products?

Well, it took a while, but I'm glad I finally established a point to this column. Make sure to write your president, Congresspeople and lobbyists to let them know that you want to make Super Sunday a national holiday. And don't forget: On the next Super Sunday, if you see the Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol approach your house with a giant mock check for $10 million, this might be your lucky day.

Then again, it might not.