And on the seventh day, he will rest from the NFL

Every Sunday, I sit in a bar, look up at multiple TV screens and wonder, "What am I doing with myself?"

People, what are we doing with ourselves?

America is in turmoil -- social, economic, diplomatic woes -- and most of our energy revolves around challenging the spotting of a ball in the second quarter of an NFL game.

Here is an actual conversation I just had with a man sitting on the saloon stool next to me last Sunday:

Him: "The ground cannot cause a fumble."

Me: "But it just did!"

A couple of Sundays ago, when I was taking my weekly stroll to the Manhattan bar where I watch the NFL, a 40-ish man approached me on the street, pushing a baby carriage with one hand and walking his dog with the other. And into his cellphone headset, this is what he says:

"You keep telling me you don't like Steven Jackson, so just don't play him."

Frankly, I can't take it anymore.

The problem is this: I love the NFL. But how much longer can I sit back and hear Tony Siragusa spitting out inanities from beyond the end zone? How much longer can I listen to Daryl Johnston overanalyzing and Shannon Sharpe salivating and Chris Berman boomerizing and Gus Johnson yowling and Brian Billick bloviating?

I have half a mind to say, "Bring back Joe Theismann," but I fear he'd come back.

(I've actually tried to monetize my viewing vice: I contacted every NFL TV carrier, offering to be a studio commentator. Not only do they flatly refuse to return my calls, several have attempted to remove their network signal from my cable package.)