I am sitting in a purple and red velvet jogging suit as I write this. What can I say? It's good to be me.

“The Sopranos” is two episodes away from getting the old Oogatz. And it's been a hell of a good run for this; the best serialized crime drama ever.

Granted, “The Sopranos” has as much similarity with real Italian-American life as “Diff'rent Strokes” has with American-Samoan life, but it gives a beautiful dramatized look into organized crime.

The hallmark of this program, more than its writing, has been its characters. We love to hate these creeps. While they are just as romanticized as their 1930s and '40s counterparts, it’s their weaknesses bleeding through that make them into the twisted heroes they are.

Because come on, who doesn't want to see Tony get away with everything? For Tony not to get pinched or clipped? Me, that's who.

Seriously, this feeling of trepidation for T's survival is matched only by a secret want to see his sorry criminal ass pay.

And what hurts the Mafiosi more than death? Actually, I think death would hurt pretty bad. However, to be labeled a rat has to be the hardest of goodbyes for these types.

My guess and desire for the ending of the series is that the FBI takes it to T and forces him to flip on everyone. He then gets familiar with the witness protection program, his rep ruined. Just like Fabian Petrulio from Season One.

However it ends, we're all in for a couple of stunning last two episodes.

But to truly prepare for the final sign-off, I've been re-watching every single episode on DVD.

It is starting to affect me. I told my boss the other day to stop busting my balls about the freaking toner already! He looked at me funny, but when I demanded a “taste” of the afternoon news budget meeting, I found myself in a sit-down with HR.

We worked things out.

And my wife has not been too happy about it. She says I suck as impersonating their accents and that I've grown increasingly misogynistic. Please, I have not once massaged her shoulders in the past three weeks. I don't know what the heck she's talking about. Skirts. What can you do?

She drew the line when she caught me trying to hide $47 in one-dollar bills in random places around the house. Then came the diatribe about the feds not caring about us not reporting the value of my comic book collection in our tax statements and no raid was in the works.

I replied with, “Get back in the kitchen!” and then spent the rest of the day locked out of the house.

Maybe I should have massaged her shoulders after all.