Friends, I have to relay a concern that I, as a broadcast professional, a father and even as a human being, cannot let stand unchallenged any longer: the level of personal expression in today’s society is beyond the pale. Certainly not aboveboard.

/does a half dozen FLOTV commercials where he has the only speaking role

On Sunday, in the Jets’ stunning victory in Foxborough, I believe we witnessed a tipping point. Shonn Greene’s clinching touchdown was met with a disgraceful display of elation and idiosyncratic celebration that, frankly, should chill us to the bone.

When my life unit was replicated in a laboratory located in a shadowy and undisclosed section of Jakarta those 50-odd planet cycles ago, one thing that myself and my fellow replicants came to accept as absolute was the value of complete and utter uniformity. We talked alike. We made thoughtful gestures alike. Our hairlines thinned along similar lines. If someone acted out of accordance with his peers, he was clearly a defect who was to be disassembled and salvaged for scrap smug.

Over time, our makers released us replicants into the world for the stated mission of restoring the vanilla blandness that they saw was being eroded by gains of the individual. Had our makers known the staggering task that just a few thousand replicants would be going up against, perhaps they would have manufactured many more. But how could they have foreseen the rise of the Internet? It makes possible personal expression possible in ways that my unit type’s replicant mind was never designed to conceive. I dare not even gaze upon its horrifying, gaudy visage.

Not only do there exist innumerable ways to alter one’s appearance to distinguish one’s self from others, but there too is a burgeoning Internet culture that encourages individuality as almost a singular point of emphasis. Be it user names or unique pictures that accompany them, the Internet, what could be an oppressing system of conforming oneness, is instead a force for repellent, disparate variety. Diversity of thought, culture, taste. This is not what our makers saw fit for the future of replicantkind.

The one that we refer to as Replicant Prime – you know him as “Peyton Manning” – now stands as the only hope for beating back the tidal wave of the self. He represents the best of us because he represents all of us. Us being personality devoid replicants, of course. Woe be it that we won’t see him in the rest of this football season. His absence means I will be forced to chide player celebration at even its most subtle.

STOP POINTING FOR THE FIRST DOWN! THAT IS THE JOB OF THE OFFICIALS! EVERYONE KNOWS YOU CROSSED THE MARKER! ONE DAY WE WILL SAP YOU OF THIS FALSE CONSTRUCT THAT IS FREE WILL!

Hello, friends.

Jim Nantz here. You probably think the offseason is a pretty quiet time for me. And you would be right. Once The Masters – A Tradition, you might have heard, Unlike Any Other – concludes in early April, it frees up a big chunk of my schedule. That’s a lot of time stretched out before me just waiting to be filled. Heck, it’s not until September that I really have anything to do again.

I tell ya, if it weren’t for that extensive break, I might have to cut down on my swath of destruction.

As it stands, I’m just an absurdly successful man bored by the mundane social mores that govern our everyday lives. Once you’ve reached the heights that I have, basic compassion for your fellow man becomes a thing of the past. What are they to you, the towering figure of achievement? You see yourself scowling at your peers with contempt, dangerous thoughts creeping into your mind until eventually you’re compelled to act upon them, only to bring some rare moment of amusement to a life made too easy by riches. If it weren’t for unthinkable acts of malevolence, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

Weeks into my downtime, the anxiety starts small, and so too are my deeds. Just a little minor mischief, like forcing a tattoo artist to put 56 stars on a girls face, when she only asked for one. Seedy fellas are good like that. Slip ‘em an extra C-note and there’s nothing they won’t do.

She looks like Jem lady-ejaculated on her mug, doesn’t she? Hooo, that’s a doozy. Have you heard that fellow Moby’s “We Are All Made of Stars”? I did for the first time the other day. Fella’s got a future. Anyway, I took a photo of this girl and masturbate to that song in the background while the wife makes a souffle.

But if you think that’s enough to slake the inner demons, well, you really don’t understand what it’s like to gaze upon another and be reminded that

THERE’S AN ALL NEW CRIMINAL MINDS WEDNESDAY AT 9 ON AMERICA’S MOST WATCHED NETWORK, CBS!

The beginning of May found on a vacation near the tar pits with the family. We had a nice confab with this other family, the Hendersons. The husband was a stand-up guy. Really knew his wife. Recommended a fine tempranillo I’ve since tried with some pan-fried tilapia. Anyway, he asked me about my work and explained how he always wanted to get into broadcasting. A real dream of his apparently. I told him I would do what I could. We really got down to brass tacks. I told the wife to take his wife and kids off to get some Italian ices while we fellas talked business.

And that’s when I shoved him in the tar.

“Bagjsndocahww,” is what I heard him say as his head submerged beneath the bubbling inky goo. I sat, knotting my fingers and grinning as he struggled futilely. Those are the moments worth treasuring, friends. Boy, I really gave it to the missus that night.

Then there was the time that I rigged the Iranian election. If we really wanna be honest about things, it was remarkably easy. I’ve had more foul-ups with the dry cleaning than getting that election to go the way I wanted. You contact a few retired black-ops guys, get a few closers, a few premature discussions with the Ayatollah, easy-peasy stuff. He gets a bum rap, but I think that [has researcher bring him card with pronunciation guide] Ack-Mah-Dinna-Jad guy is just plain misunderstood. I think once we get all this Twitter stuff sorted out, me and him are gonna have a few productive months ahead.

There you have it. A small sampling of the things I’ve been up to. No big whoop. I say it’s pretty par for the course for a spring/summer life in the Nantz house. I try to keep as many irons in the fire as possible, lest time really starts to drag. And we can’t have that.

What do I have planned for you?

Only time will tell, friends.

JOE BUCK: Jim, what are you pointing at?

JIM NANTZ: Uh, I forgot.

JOE BUCK: So, that’s it. Another season in the books.

JIM NANTZ: It went by so quickly.

JOE BUCK: Good season, Jim.

JIM NANTZ: Good season, Joe.

JOE BUCK: I think we’ve earned a little R&R, don’t you agree?

JIM NANTZ: We did some gosh-darned good work this season.

JOE BUCK: So much bullcrap that we put up with, what with the travel, all the a-holes to deal with. It’s a great job, make no mistake, but people question my fortitude, call me the P-word and what not. It really…it stinks. It just stinks.

JIM NANTZ: Stinks like fresh bull mess.

JOE BUCK: But I’m done with that for a few months. Sometimes it takes me a few weeks to snap out of my broadcaster voice, you know what I mean? I have some baseball dates coming up, but those are way down the calendar.

JIM NANTZ: You’re lucky. I still have the CBS golf schedule, including the Masters. On such hallow ground, one’s language must be as pristine and as pure as his pigmentation.

JOE BUCK: Better keep that mouth of yours in game shape then.

JIM NANTZ: Indeed. But I will get a short break here. For three days, I’m not going to do…

[Trails off]

JOE BUCK: …Jim?

Oh. It’s finally happened. The Pussy Apocalypse is upon us. An army of whores have come to enslave us all.

JIM NANTZ: Oh, no.

JOE BUCK: Look at that one in the front. That little bitch is begging for it.

JIM NANTZ: Oh, heavens, no.

JOE BUCK: That little piece of Tokyo ‘tang might be on your flight, Jimbo. You might even be sitting next to her on the way back to New York. You could give her a little Seoul Finger. But, you know, like South Korea Seoul. Get it?

JIM NANTZ: [Squirming uncomfortably] I follow you, Joe.

JOE BUCK: Oh, sorry man. I didn’t mean to articulate that. That is a disgusting act. And I apologize that…that I won’t be flicking that bean myself. You know what I hear about Japanese women? That their gashes are flat. Like their economy.

JIM NANTZ: You’re not really helping.

JOE BUCK: What’s the big deal? Just say that you want to fuck her and I’ll shut up. I swear. Just say it, Jimbo. Me love you long time. But say it in a Bryant Gumbel voice.

JIM NANTZ: No.

JOE BUCK: Fine, say it in your own voice.

JIM NANTZ: I’m not going to say it.

JOE BUCK: She might have checked her bags at the terminal, but I’ll be checking her oil in the handicapped stall before boarding. And I will continue to hit that ass until the No Pounding sign has been illuminated. By the time I’m done fucking her, not only will her eyes be round, but she’ll have gained 15 pounds and have issues with her father.

JIM NANTZ: Please stop.

JOE BUCK: Come on, Jimbo, let’s get over there and gang-bang her. You can give her a Pacific Rimjob, and I’ll make her pie-hole part of the Wang Dynasty. Then you can take a break while I pummel that Pai-Gow pussy with my Kim Jong eel while I’ve got her ankles on my shoulders.

JIM NANTZ: [mumbling] It’s a position…

JOE BUCK: Say it, Jimbo. Come on, say it!

JIM NANTZ: It’s a position unlike any other.

JOE BUCK: Yes! Alright, Jimbo!

JIM NANTZ: Ladies and gentlemen, this is Flight 669 with nonstop service to Pleasuretown. We’d like to invite our Pacific club members to begin seating…on my face.

JOE BUCK: Let’s get over there. I’ve got an invitation to the House of Dong with her name on it.
[They stand up]

JIM NANTZ: I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: nothing beats Saigon beaver.

JOE BUCK: True dat, Jimbo. True. Dat.