Enough already with this sympathy for the devil, i.e., the Philadelphia sports fan.

Most of it we’ve heard straight from the horses’, uh, mouths, thanks to third-person babbling that oozes with more self-love than Freddie Mitchell.

Philly, schmilly. These phair-weather phools took inventory of their own lives (how Dr. Phil of them) and decided they possess the faith of Job and passion of Christ. In reality, their act is old as Methuselah.

It was hard to miss that hand-held sign during the NFC Championship, or its point, absurdity notwithstanding: “Red Sox. (Phil) Mickelson. Now it’s our turn.”

Haven’t you heard? The long-suffering, loyal City of Brotherly Intoxication hasn’t enjoyed a world championship since Rocky Balboa knocked out Ivan Drago in November 1985, ushering in perestroika and keeping the world safe for democracy.

OK, so that was fiction. Filthy’s last honest-to-meanness crown came in 1983, when Moses, Dr. J and the 76ers swept the Lakers. Jack Nicholson was so saddened that he accepted a role in “Terms of Endearment.”

Michael Jack Schmidt and the Phillies won the World Series in 1980. Fred Shero’s Broad Street Bullies hoisted back-to-back Stanley Cups in 1974 and ’75, back when Elton John inexplicably sang the city’s praises.

That’s four major team sports championships in my lifetime, and heck, I’m only starting to plot my mid-life crisis.

I know nothing counts if it happened before they gave the NFL title game a catchy name and increased the annual profit of breweries and toilet manufacturers tenfold, but even the Eagles won one in 1960. Players weren’t exactly Cro-Magnon men. Gosh, Bill Belichick’s dad already had taught him to say “total team effort” in six languages.

These people don’t fool me. There’s no stigma bearing the faintest resemblance to “1918” stamped to their foreheads.

It’s an affront to our intelligence and an insult to truly long-suffering people (like Jessica Simpson being married to Nick Lachey) to say Eagles’ scouts have earned that badge of honor. Real persevering folk are meek spirits, bound by honor, in sickness and in health.

Our Chunky Soup-slurping friends are disqualified on all count, and I’ve witnessed them at their worst.

Five Decembers ago, I drove all Saturday night down the Jersey Turnpike with a co-worker, bought two tickets and sat Sunday in a half-empty Veterans Stadium. It was rowdy as a poetry reading, at first, leading to the conclusion that most spectators were fellow Patriots fans sitting on hands and wearing logo-less ski parkas out of fear.

The Eagles were 3-11. Donovan McNabb was injured. This was the end of the Pete Carroll regime, though, and the Patriots played like complete horsepoo. That gave the few steak-and-cheesers at the godforsaken Vet the courage to publicly air their ignorance.

Yeah, these are the legendary people who booed Santa Claus, those hard-nosed ruffians. This road trip was the weekend before Christmas, and I believe they tried to replicate the infamous Kringle incident that day in a scene with all the authenticity of a Super Bowl ring on Ron Jaworski’s finger.

By the third quarter, the suburban stranger to my right tried to justify why Philadelphia fans had cheered when Dallas Cowboys receiver Michael Irvin lay motionless on their death-trap turf with what amounted to a career-ending neck injury. He muttered something about how Deion Sanders made a public spectacle of praying for Irvin and that they thought prayer was stupid. Go figure.

In the middle of that conversation, one of his buddies noticed an African-American woman sitting five rows down, dressed in a Cowboys jacket. She also wore thick-rimmed glasses. They began screaming at her, calling her Urkel.

The woman sitting next to Urkel had short hair that she covered with a baseball cap. I’ll spare you the details of that abuse.

Collectively, these people are idiots. Suffered? They haven’t suffered nearly enough. Another eon or two ought to do it nicely.

I’ve got nothing against McNabb, Brian Westbrook and Jevon Kearse. Nice guys, all. But I’d go back and root for the Soviets in Lake Placid, Mike Tyson in Tokyo and the Yankees anywhere before I’d have one scintilla of sympathy for the Eagles on Sunday. No matter whom they were playing.

Kalle Oakes is a staff writer. His e-mail is [email protected].