Riding back on one of the media buses after Super Bowl XXXV, I found myself in the middle of a pack of German sports journalists. They acted as if they had just come from Der Comedy Jam. My German is a little rusty -- alright, nonexistent -- but what I think I heard one of them say was, "Sauerbraten uwe blab eidelweis auf wiedersehen Trent Dilfer." At that, the others collapsed in laughter.

When they recovered, another said, "Wiener schnitzel detlef schrempf daimler-chrysler danke schoen Trent Dilfer." That apparently was even funnier, because now they were rolling in the aisle.

Besides being vaguely offended that Germans were making fun of Trent Dilfer -- that's American territory, dammit -- I suddenly felt lost. I just didn't get it.

But then I often felt that way last week. You may remember XXXV as "Lewie, Lewie," or "Worldwide Punts," or "Crash & Kerry," or "Nevermore Boring," or even "The Redemption of Trent Dilfer." (Hör auf damit! Du lachst mich tot! *) Me, I don't want to commit it to memory until I can figure it out.

Let's take some of the stories of the week, and because nothing made sense, let's take them in no particular order:

People are happy for longtime NFL owner Art Modell. I don't get it. To recap, Art took the Cleveland Browns away from the most loyal fans around and plopped them in Baltimore, which rationalized the theft because the Colts had been relocated to Indianapolis by another scoundrel. Art deserves something, but it's not the Lombardi.

Aerosmith, Backstreet Boys, Britney, Mary J. Blige, Ray Charles, 'N Sync, Nelly, Sting, Styx. I don't get it. Where was Robert Merrill?

People are upset that Super Bowl MVP Ray Lewis didn't get tabbed by Disney or Wheaties. I don't get it. We're supposed to feel bad for a man who still thinks a double murder was all about him? As Ray said when he was asked if he had anything to say to the families of the victims: "Nah."

Brandon Stokley. I don't get it. I thought Randy Moss was The One.

As a father of four, I understand the appeal of dress-up. If Tampa wants to pretend it's a major city, fine, though it might want to sprinkle a Gap or a Starbucks or something on the sidewalks beneath the skyscrapers. If the Giants want to think of themselves as NFC champions, cool, but next time, please don't let Wellington Mara dress up in Kerry Collins' jersey. What I don't get, though, is this whole pirate, beads, Gasparilla thing. I'm with Tangi Miller from Felicity. (We're often linked.) Said Tangi, in town for the celebration, "I kept asking people to tell what this parade is about. Someone, some pirates, take a key from the mayor, and no one can tell me why."

Journalists took offense when Brian Billick told them how to do their job. I don't get it. We tell him how to do his job. And besides, anybody who can get to the Super Bowl with Trent Dilfer (Ich have mich kaputtgelacht! **) at quarterback can rewrite my leads.

Ybor City. I don't get it. Why that first Y?

People lined up the length of a football field for shellfish. Thousands of folding chairs, all with coats or shawls on them. Moving statues of antiquity and props from Jason and the Argonauts. Tourists posing with mermaids. A nightmare? No, just Star Gaze, the Commissioner's party. I don't get it. I actually groveled for a ticket to it.

Styx without Dennis DeYoung? I don't get it. That's like Kraftwerk without Florian Schneider-Esleben.

At the Tampa City Center on Saturday, Jason Sehorn participated in the Dog Chow Incredible Football Challenge. I don't get it. Doesn't Angie's intended have something better to do with his off-time? By the way, the Dog Chow Challenge was described as extreme games for dogs. Guess a little of it rubbed off on Jason.

Wait a minute: I think I get it now. They weren't laughing at Trent. Sie lachten mit ihn. ***

*Stop it, you're killing me!

**My sides are hurting.

***They were laughing with him.

Steve Wulf is executive editor of ESPN Der Magazine. E-mail him at steve.wulf@espnmag.com.