He speaks mostly in interjections and his face becomes flush. He appears to be getting both thirsty and sweaty… and we've barely breached Sunday Afternoon. From Jim Kelly to Aaron Rodgers, Emmitt Smith to Marshall Faulk, Eric Bieniemy to Charles Woodson, and Mike Alstott to Ahmad Bradshaw; Chris Berman has turned the romantic art of football storytelling into a manically passionate activity that is possibly sexual. He's taken the practice of annotating an American pastime and added some perverse panache.

Talking about football on television gets Chris Berman so steamy under the collar that it makes you wonder just what he was up to during the commercial break. His forehead starts to dew, his blood pressure elevates, and he appears to lose control over his limbic system. When the cameras zoom in to film the second segment, it's obvious that he's more worked up than a bitch in heat. His voice changes pitch, his pupils dilate, his head continues to become rounder.

For years I've been getting screwed by this guy right through the TV set and I never knew it. After noticing this trend over and over again, and seeing how he seems so fatigued in the final moments of each show, it's not hard to surmise what is actually going down.

Am I surmising that while Chris Berman narrates highlights he's experiencing the same physiological changes that we do when we we're in the bedroom making "highlights of our own"?

Yes.

Am I jumping to the conclusion that Chris Berman solidifies his NFL hard-on with every great catch, stunning interception, and touchdown run involving multiple broken tackles?

Yes. Yes I am.

Take a moment and think about it. Nearly every one of his notorious antics sounds like a call to orgasm.

BACK BACK BACK BACK BACK BACK!

WHOOOOOOOP!

I've seen the signs before, I just never made the connection until now. Only after spending my formative childhood using the riffs to NFL Primetime as my personal soundtrack, and then recently revisiting the library of Berman on YouTube have I found myself comfortable in claiming that I'm pretty sure Chris Berman literally gets off from broadcasting highlight clips.

Why else do you think they call it the Fastest Three Minutes?

The name now seems inappropriately appropriate. He gives it to us fast and hard and even interjects some Roleplay (Swami, anyone?).

For years I've been getting screwed by this guy right through the TV set and I never knew it. He pulled the wool over my eyes on Primetime, hoodwinked me on Countdown, and then screwed me again with his horrible picks. Shame on him… shame on him… shame on me.

One crude, possibly irrational revelation leads to another. And yet another Eureka moment grips me: I've just discovered one more thing in my life that is ultimately about sex. Suddenly I've obtained more clarity, and for that, maybe I've grown.

The older I get, the more I read, the more I observe, the more I see. And the more I see, the more I realize… it's all about sex. Ultimately and totally. Flowers getting pollinated by other flowers, dogs constantly turning out puppies, and we've seen what goes on with rabbits… the gears of this world are urged by two forces: intellectual diligence, and pelvic friction. Chris Berman was merely just the most candid among us. And I shouldn't place any blame on him. Just like any flower, dog, or other passionately oblivious creature, Chris Berman has genuinely delivered a day-in-day-out performance that was simply just an instinctive release of pheromones. Out there unabridged, unhinged, having sex in front of the nation on PG television. Fulfilling his biology.

And even if he isn't an NFL Sex Addict, thinking about it as being true should definitely be enough to get you through the predictable and forced banter of an ESPN broadcast.

And if he is an NFL Sex Addict? Then our inklings will have acquired weight.

RUMBLIN' BUMBLIN' STUMBLIN'!

So take the above and review what I've presented, and feel free to incorporate your own thought. Then after letting things stir and settle, think about this:

If Chris Berman wasn't an NFL Sex Addict, why would they call it the Two Minute Drill?


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