TV silence please

The Chargers were on Monday Night Football this week. That was fine. No problem there. In fact, I relished the opportunity to watch the Bolts, live in big-screen TV glory while perched on the edge of my couch (east facing southern end, of course).

For the masochistic aspect, it was great. I don't get to watch the Bolts much on the tube out here, so when that chance pops up I'm like a mousy accountant in a Dominatrix's lair - so excited I almost burst at the first sight of LT.

What troubled me about this broadcast, though, were the announcers.

Let me set the record straight: Announcers are like those sweat gnats that buzz around your face after a hard day of work in the sun. They hang around your eyes, rest on the ear hair, and in the end annoy enough to prompt ceaseless flail as you hope to catch one and squash their heads until white puss leaks out.

Wife tells me I should mute the tube and add my own soundtrack. But, as stated in paragraph two, I'm a masochist. Slap my ass, whip my gonads with seven-tailed, and I'll squeal with agonized pleasure.

But the Monday night crew took it a step further. They talked incessantly about the Chargers. Talk is hardly accurate, in fact, they praised the Chargers (except when Phillip Rivers - the Chargers big mouth QB - talked shit to the Bronco QB, but that's not the point) for their turnaround this season and hypothesized that they could give the Indy Colts and the New Cheatland Patriots a run in the playoffs.

"Shut up!" I yelled at the TV, "No one needs to know they're playing better." Wife poked her head out of the office (where she was exiled because the Bolts were winning), but quickly figured I was just talking to the voices in my head again. She's used to my inner-monologue rants.

But the Monday night announcers are just the tip of the iceberg. I'm seeing news about San Diego on every corner of the Internet now. From the front page of Google News to the Canadian Press to the Los Angeles Times. Hell, I bet if I went to Redbook or Christianity Today, they'd have eight-page spreads about the Bolts peaking at the right time. Igor Olshansky is probably the centerfold Playgirl, for all I know (and I don't ... really ... how would I know?).

What happened to the days when I'd be out in my Charger gear and folks would ask me if San Diego still had a team? I miss those days. Anonymity is a very underrated trait. Now the nation's eyes are hovering over Jack Murphy Stadium, and the gaze is as unnerving as a creepy old guy at a playground park.

Can't the football-watching world just leave the Bolts be? Watch the Cheatriots go undefeated. Laugh at Raiders ineptness. Ask Michael Vick about dog handling. There's nothing to see in San Diego, just let the Chargers play under a curtain of media indifference. Like a traffic accident on the 805 freeway, there is nothing to see here. Move along please. They don't need the added pressure. I don't need the added pressure. My ulcerated gut doesn't need the pressure.

But it would be cool if they shocked the talking head pundits on NFL Network and ESPN (the Worlwide Leader in ruining Sports) and came out to Glendale, AZ, for a certain game on Feb. 3.

Me, and four other Charger fans would be exceptionally cool with that.