Darlene: Believe that's the new expansion team in San Antone.
How will Miller sandwich his hilarious, breathless, triple-espresso opinions into the time between the tackle and the next snap when he can't clear his throat in less than four minutes?
Miller:...So, in conclusion, that's just an emotional orifice I don't think any of us want to spelunk! (Huge inhale.)
Al Michaels: Dennis, we went to break two minutes ago.
How will the simpleton world of pro football satisfy the intellectual curiosity of a man who routinely mines every subject from Martha Stewart to Albert Einstein?
Miller: You know, that last jarring tackle by Stinkowitz reminds me of something, Al. Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but why, in this country, are men so willing to plant their face masks squarely in another man's crotch to make a tackle, and yet if the same two men were to approach each other in the frozen-foods aisle at Kroger's after not seeing each other for 30 years and one of them even attempted a homophobic half-shoulder bump-hug, the other would throw a roundhouse right that Tonya Harding would admire? (Huge inhale.)
Michaels: Dennis, we went to break two minutes ago.
How will testosterone-leaking NFL players like being criticized by a skinny wiseacre whose only sniff of athletic competition was losing to Sinbad in Ed McMahon's Star Search and who was beaten half to death by 93-pound Rebecca De Mornay in the movie Never Talk to Strangers?
Neckless 400-pound tackle: I hear you said sumpin' 'bout my mama.
Miller: No, no! I was merely commenting that they must've been able to hear her labor screams in the Christmas Islands when an infant of your copious dimensions arrived, in the sense that she must've been left with a birthing canal the size of the Holland Tunnel, in the sense that it had to be like giving birth to a New York City brownstone. Of course that's just my opinion, I could be wrong. (Huge inhale.)