I am humiliated.

A Philly Cheese Steak beat out barbecue.

A coach who looks like he’s just eaten a bowl of haggis beats a coach who loves him some chicken nuggets.

The quarterback who has made a career of pulling rabbits out of hats is suddenly served up on a platter to a group of voracious Elmer Fudd’s.

Taylor Swift was last seen leaving New Orleans in the talons of the Eagles mascot.

For the first time in the history of the City, Philly fans had nothing to boo about.

Maybe the offensive Tomahawk Chop that Kansas City fans borrowed from the Atlanta Braves will finally be retired. It obviously is no more effective than the Rally Monkey or the Terrible Towel.

Andy Reid and Patrick Mahomes quit being spokesmen for All-State when they realized they actually were not “In Good Hands.”

And that all left me holding the bag of one of the worst predictions I’ve made since I promised my house, my car, and my first born if Joe Namath and the Jets beat the mighty Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III.

My daughter has never forgiven me.

In this case, I’ve taken the high road. I’ve left town.

So here’s the sports news this week from where I sit.Barron Mamiya won surfing’s Lexus Pipe Pro over in Oahu. He was brilliant in the tubes in beating Leo Fioravanti for the title.

Modesty forbids, but my mother said I was brilliant in the tubes too.

The Hawaii Wahines are hosting the Spring Fling Softball Tournament.

And of course, there’s Sunrise Yoga. I’ve been working on my Downward Dog, and now I completely understand why our puppy refuses to obey.

And here’s the best news: Nobody cares one bit about who won the Super Bowl and, even more importantly, my prediction thereof.

This of course, comes on the heels of my questioning why the Warriors would possibly want or need a 35 year old Jimmy Butler. Yet another time, it appears that Steve Kerr and the Warriors’ front office had a better idea of what the team’s needs and wants might be than this fearless columnist. My viewpoint is skewed by spending many hours discussing the makeup of a successful sports franchise with… well, with Steve Kerr.

So, headed into this little junket of gloating while my home is inundated by rain, wind, and — for all I know — locusts, I bring with me a year-to-date prediction rating of 0.00.

That said, let me predict unequivocally that the San Francisco Giants will win the National League West over the Dodgers, Padres and Diamondbacks; Buster Posey will be Executive of the Year; and that recently acquired Oslevis Basabe will be the surprise MVP of the league.

Oh wait! I knew I shouldn’t have had that last Mai-Tai.

Predictions are fickle things. They are remembered most when you’re wrong. That being the case, I have many memorable predictions.

My role model when it comes to pontificating is Nostradamus. Nos hasn’t been doing the talk show circuit much lately. One reason is that he died in the mid-16th Century but left behind hundreds of years of predictions.

For instance, Nostradamus told us in 1555 that in 2025 we’d have “Cruel wars in Europe, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions a global economic collapse, and advancements in technology.”

Last year’s predictions included severe weather affecting Asia, a major cyberattack that could cripple a nation, the earth would grow more parched and we’d see massive flooding. And in a footnote, he wrote: “I also kind of like the Philadelphia Eagles.” Not sure what that meant.

But, I’m done. I’ve stashed my (defective) crystal ball in favor of mornings on the beach sitting in a position attainable only by Simone Biles or a cobra, and watching a master do the splits at 72 years of age. Once again. If I had a bet on it, I’d have taken the under.

There’ll be over a million people in the streets of Philadelphia on Friday to celebrate their team’s decimation of the “good guys” from Kansas City. And, they earned it. And that’s what I love about living where we do.

Unless you happened to be foolish enough to publicly predict the other guys would win, it’s “OK, nice game, what’s for dinner?”

The sun will rise here in Maui tomorrow at 6:56 a.m. I think I like the under.

With my luck, it’ll be cancelled.