This column was supposed to come out earlier (read: "before the Christmas holidays, when it would have been of some actual use to the readers"). Unfortunately, it will come out slightly later than anticipated (read: "approximately a week after Bastille Day, given the average turnaround time of this cyber-rag"), due to circumstances beyond our control (read: "hangover").

In point of fact, this column was supposed to come out immediately after the November Sweeps, which is, as the teeming horde of loyal readers of this particular cyberessayist’s column knows all too well, the sort of subject matter that guarantees us a four-games-and-out lock on the Pulitzer every year. As the aforementioned cyberessayist in question, we are obliged to keep our ear to the ground whenever one of the Sweeps Weeks rolls around on the office sundial, for no other reason than the wealth of subject material that such an event ensues.

That did not happen. Instead of the usual Sweeps fare, the country was treated to nonstop coverage of low-level public servants staring at pieces of cardboard, trying to discern who in the name of God and Dan Marino the people of Florida elected as President.

Unconscionable, we say. First off, this is not something that makes for high drama. One might offer the observation that watching the actual recounting was about as exciting as watching paint dry; to this, we say, No, watching paint dry is a Jerry Bruckheimer movie compared to this. Second off, this was not something that needed to be shown 24-7. Even the Jerry Lewis telethon cuts to commercial break every hour or so.

Third off, all this did was push Sweeps Week into mid-December, which meant that, not only did we have to traverse the normal holiday mine field of Christmas specials, but we had to do so coupled with the delayed Sweeps specials shoehorned in whenever there was an un-tinseled half-hour block sitting in prime time. To wit, on the FOX network, we got... The Ultimate Auction.

A one-hour special wherein we were treated to the spectacle of... watching rich people buy stuff.

But that it should be foisted upon us by FOX was simply not right. Those people who work over at the Big Disorienting Searchlight have enough stock footage of every conceivable large, inanimate object either collapsing, exploding, undressing, marrying a multimillionaire or being slammed into during a high-speed police chase that they could have aired anything else in this time slot. The fact that they decided to air The Ultimate Auction was evidence of only one of two possible things:

1. An indication that someone misplaced the final edit of The World’s Most Dangerous Fragile Porcelain Figurines just before airtime.

2. A too-clever-by-half attempt to squeeze this rotting corpse of a prime-time special in before anyone noticed, let alone gave half a damn.

But, since we are the sort who get paid by this estimable periodical to give exactly that half a damn, and not a microdamn more nor less, we were not flim-flammed by FOX’s attempt to stealth-bomb the Nielsen ratings. The Ultimate Auction could serve a purpose, we surmised; namely, it could give us (and our readership) a jump on next year’s Christmas list.

Thus, a few observations on The Ultimate Auction:

The Ultimate Auction was emceed by that Rasputin of network television, Robert Urich, no doubt fresh from the cancellation of his 845,673^rd TV series. His co-host was -- I can hardly bear to type the name -- Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York. (Mother of pearl, did that hurt.) Urich introduced the Duchess as "someone who we felt would add a touch of class to the proceedings." (Thanks for the nod to aesthetics, Rob.)

We had hopes for this show. Truly, we did. A bunch of rich people sitting in a studio buying stuff, regardless of what your first impression may be, has real potential. Rich people -- especially very rich people -- tend to be daffier than a busload of spooked geese, and the idea of a whole mess of these pikers crammed into a small soundstage beating one another about the head and shoulders with numbered bidding paddles became extremely appealing. Even more so if they’d been liquored up beforehand.

No such luck. The bidding, if it could be called that, was done completely by proxy, thereby precluding any possibility of a Newport cocktail party-cum-steel cage match breaking out. Which left The Ultimate Auction to sink or swim based on what it was. An auction. Auctions aren’t nearly as tense and drama-filled as they are in a James Bond film, folks. There’s no random trio of thick henchmen chasing Pierce Brosnan out the back door here; just a bunch of people raising their hands intermittently whenever the person at the podium says something that spikes their interest.

And what, in fact, were these wackos bidding over? Read on....

SIGNIFICANCE: The only species of its kind on the planet, a specimen of a type of "missing link" dinosaur that bridges the evolutionary gap between the T. Rex and the velociraptor, or somesuch.

KNEE-JERK REACTION: How do you determine the provenance?

ROBERT URICH TOLD US: That the winning bidder must donate it to a public museum.

TO WHICH THE PROPER RESPONSE IS: ...As soon as the Smithsonian pries it from his cold, dead fingers.

OPENING BID: $350,000.

CLOSING BID: $500,000.

SIGNIFICANCE: A postcard mailed from the Titanic’s last port of call, in Ireland, before that doomed liner ventured out into the Atlantic and became the world’s most expensive swizzle stick.

KNEE-JERK REACTION: ...And thank heavens it’s up for bids, because what with the whole election mess and all, we’ve gone weeks without anything Titanic-related television event being jammed down our pieholes.

ROBERT URICH TOLD US: A lovely story about the woman who mailed the letter, who was a second-class passenger.

TO WHICH THE PROPER RESPONSE IS: Fish food, you mean.

OPENING BID: $50,000.

CLOSING BID: $175,000.

SIGNIFICANCE: One of the original copies, penned by Clement C. Moore himself, of his immortal poem, which has brought joy to generations of children.

KNEE-JERK REACTION: So how come Gillian Anderson, the queen of FOX-level creepiness, was reading it to a bunch of kids in the studio? What’s next? John Malkovich reading The Velveteen Rabbit?

ROBERT URICH TOLD US: That the Library of Congress would love to have this copy.

TO WHICH THE PROPER RESPONSE IS: So give it to ’em, jackass. It’s the holiday season, for flip’s sake.

OPENING BID: $400,000.

CLOSING BID: Not sold as of yet. The auction continues on Amazon.com, if you want to get in on cheating generations of kids out of a nice Christmas story.

SIGNIFICANCE: The real costume worn by Bert Lahr, when he played the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard of Oz.

KNEE-JERK REACTION: Judy Garland’s barbiturate-and-vodka-induced vomit stains should dry-clean right out.

ROBERT URICH TOLD US: That the costume is made from the skin of an actual lion.

TO WHICH THE PROPER RESPONSE IS: Egads, I did not need to hear that.

OPENING BID: This item went straight to Amazon.com, where everyone who has any cash left after bidding on all those internal organs and immortal souls over on eBay can try to complete the Unassisted Macabre Triple Play by landing this catch.

SIGNIFICANCE: One of the few remaining rockers that JFK used as President, to help ease his back problems.

KNEE-JERK REACTION: ...And if you spent your time as the leader of the New Frontier boinking everything with even a faint pulse, your back’d hurt like hell, too.

ROBERT URICH TOLD US: That he sat in it backstage prior to air, and got chills from the experience.

TO WHICH THE PROPER RESPONSE IS: Maybe they should’ve steam-cleaned the cushions first?

OPENING BID: $100,000.

CLOSING BID: $175,000.

SIGNIFICANCE: The necklace worn by Princess Di during her final public appearance.

KNEE-JERK REACTION: Ironic, considering that her former sister-in-law and fellow member of the Fat And Insane Club is the co-hostess.

ROBERT URICH TOLD US: That the necklace was last owned by the president of a Houston, Texas furniture store, and that he kept it on display in the main showroom.

TO WHICH THE PROPER RESPONSE IS: It must have been a real asset during those three-day closeout sales on naugahyde sectionals.

OPENING BID: $1.4 million.

CLOSING BID: Unknown as of the end of the program. This does not go on Amazon.com, so you’ll just have to content yourself with the memories.

SIGNIFICANCE: The actual space capsule in which the Russians sent Laika, the first dog in space, into space.

KNEE-JERK REACTION: It’s a giant metal sphere. Which would make one hell of a beer cooler.

ROBERT URICH TOLD US: That this item is "proof that even former enemies can become friends."

TO WHICH THE PROPER RESPONSE IS: Yeah, when one of those former enemies is so broke-ass poor that they’re reduced to subsisting on Boiled Red-Army-Uniform Stew with a side of Spent Nuclear Material.

OPENING BID: $3 million.

CLOSING BID: $4.8 million. Run to the store. We need more ice.

So, applying standard statistical logarithms and multivariable deviations and other things we all stopped paying attention to in high-school trig, we can come to the following conclusions, based on the amount of clams shelled out for each item:

Thus, we can see what the rich place real value on. Or at least, we know what’s left to bid for on Amazon.com. Log on.

Or you could wait till next column, when we review Temptation Island in this same space.

We suggest you log on. Quickly.