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When the long march of the working day finds a moment to rest its weary feet, to shake off the dust of the years and face a moment of contentment and contemplation, where does its attention turn? The working women and men who built this country once tuned their radio dials to hear the broadcast bards beguile them with the fantastic feats of far-off warriors, and let their mind's eye paint a Rockwell of Knute Rockne, let their heart Hopalong with Howard Cassady.

Old Father Time wins every contest at the final whistle, though, and the Sandman hasn't given up a yard. Kinnick's gone up the Nile to rest his head, and Doc Blanchard doesn't make house calls any more. The Spurriers of yesteryear, giants in their profession, their histrionics legendary, ride their golf carts into the sunsets of our collective memory, as a public yearning for a new bounty of memories turns its eyes to the skies and points its feet to the tweets.

Twitter, they call it, the young man's radio, where the Titans of today put on a show like Ziegfields of the zeitgeist. There exists a remarkable festival daily - whether your predilections presage rowdy rhubarbs with agitated eggs or jejune jesting at jilted giants with a gemebund Jordan - the town square of tomorrowland turns every tweeter into a tittering telegraph, it takes boldface names that once only spoke to us through the unflinching stone visage of agate type and deaf uncaring ears of transistor tubes and brings them into our living rooms and our lives, our bathroom stalls and half-past-noon brawls. Where once our heroes and villains trollied their tales into our lives on a one-way ticket, today we send a message back: "Dad".

Good evening, America, I'm Keith Jackson, and with me as always is Dan Fouts. Dan, it's a beautiful day for some internet, wouldn't you agree?

FOUTS: I want no part of this.

An understandable stance from my erstwhile boothmate!

FOUTS: How did this even come to be?

It's the offseason, Dan, the impossible becomes possible and the inadvisable unavoidable!

FOUTS: This is a black mark on your legacy, Keith.

I'm still miles ahead of Musberger, my good man, and it's almost kickoff time. Whoooooooooa Great Aunt Betty, batten down the butter churn and bring the chickens in the house, because heeeeeeeere coooooome the tweets!

From the opening gun we've got a modern-day classic from a magnificent mallard! One might question why nature photography is the purview of a wandering wideout, but I say field vision is the hallmark of a champion, whether it's an Alex Smith spiral or a ten-point buck. Bully for you, Momba!

A pugilist's spirit powers the piston-armed passer from Ohio State! I might not know what his beef is with this bobtailed basketballer is, but my money's on the thirsty third-stringer putting him on the ropes! Ohhhh, doctor!

Let's turn our eyes to the professional game, and see what's spinning from those sultans of The Shield!

Ohhhh, mercy! A troubling turn of the tone from the poison-tongued pass-rusher of days past! Try spilling that salt in someone else's sauce, Sandra Lee, your spice and sass'll spoil the batch! Next time you come in the kitchen, try mixing in some minced words, Ming Tsai, oh my!

Hip-hop is an influential force on many a young man these days, let's turn our eyes to the Rube Goldbergs of rhyme and see what contraptions they're concocting!

Hooo now hold the phone, Helios, because you're running up against hundreds of years of science! If the world was flat then Columbus would've sailed off the edge, and then you've got angrier Urbans on your hands than the Pope! You're messing with recruiting now, and a man who learned from Woody isn't going to pull any punches! Square up your science or square up your jaw, because there be monsters at the edge of this map, Magellan!

Who else has some hot takes from the Hot 100?

A sudden left turn from this unpredictable poet! A surprise entry and a subject matter reminiscent of the magnificent Willis Reed, hobbling from the tunnel to save the day, and-

A new angle, but one reminiscent of the lapping surf off Santa Monica the morning after the Grandaddy Of Them All! Lovely imag-

A test of the public's patience! How much do you think the public can take before they start to question your approach! Wake up, Mr. West! What more can you -

[sound of a lapel microphone being ripped off] [faint angry conversation]

FOUTS: I told you this was a bad idea


FOUTS: I don't know, Keith, just find a way out

[a few more minutes of indistinct arguing]

[sound of mic being clipped back on]

My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, just some technical difficulties there for a moment! When a beaver builds a dam in your transmitter truck, you've gotta chew the fella out, I say! [chuckling] As we were, ahem, you were looking for tweets that won't upset this old broadcaster any further, and, um...

[hand partially over mic] do they even have an editor, is anyone in charge?

BRENT MUSBERGER, poking head in booth: You guys should see this stuff on Tumblr, it's fantastic