Leave Bob Costas Alone!

I have had my share of fun goofing on Bob Costas over the years. He is NBC's resident nostalgia elf, and every Sunday night during football season he climbs up on his big-boy chair and arranges himself in that self-satisfied, half-canted way of his and delivers unto you, the common folk, a halftime sermon that says nothing of any substance except, "I am a man of serious and appropriate opinions." He is both cloying and self-righteous, which is why he and baseball deserve each other.

HOWEVER. Despite the fact that Costas gets paid zillions of dollars and has had the privilege of broadcasting many, many Olympics prior to these Sochi games, I feel kinda terrible for him. I mean, come on. Imagine having your showcase gig come around once every two years, and then having to bail on it because hundreds of millions of Americans know you have fucking pink eye. That poor man is SUFFERING up there in those tasteful glasses. He probably swallowed a pint of conjunctiva while sleeping last night. I have some measure of sympathy, especially since my kids get pink eye all the time because they take a shit and then touch their butts and then stick their fingers in their eyes after touching their butts. I'm not saying Costas did likewise, but still: I get it.

You will miss Costas this evening when you are subjected to hours and hours of Matt Lauer's strategic inanity. At least Costas TRIES to be more worldly and sophisticated, which I suppose is the right tone to strike for an Olympics. Lauer, by contrast, is like the worst tour guide at Epcot Center. "And over there is Norway ... so many blue eyes." He sucks, and he probably slipped fecal eyedrops in Bob just to snatch the gig away.

So take it easy on poor Bob this week. Don't kick him while he's down. Kick him while he's UP, and has two functioning eyes, and is operating at 100 percent maximum officiousness. HIS OPINION ON THE REDSKINS NAME CHANGE IS FINAL AND DEFINITIVE.