Back...and to the left. Back...and to the left.

At roughly this point every season since 1999, I find myself with stabbing pains while I watch the fine National Football League product. My weekend NFL diet is injected with 3-5 minutes of gas about once per hour, causing my eyes to roll back and my GI tract to convulse.

What could cause me such heartburn? What pains my digestion so? First and foremost, I really need to stop throwing a can of cooked spinach, a can of artichoke hearts, and a brick of cream cheese into the microwave and calling it "spinach artichoke dip". Instead, I should perhaps call it "Colon Clog" and stop by Safeway for the natural antidote.

Second and more topically, I have long since lost all resistance to the scourge called "instant replay" and cannot protect myself against its disruptive forces. Instant replay interrupts the narrative flow of a ball game and destroys all semblance of what we've come to know as momentum for a dubious cause.

While I recognize there have been multiple attempts to minimize the delays caused by instant replay, here's what we've been left with:

A close call is made by one or more of 87 officials on the field, at least two of whom at any given moment is close enough to the action to have his spleen shoved into his sinus cavities by an inattentive player. After the team most aggrieved by this close call contacts his Committee on Throwing a Wimpy Red Flag on the Field of Play, that team's head coach then flings his jaunty ascot onto the field in a manner that causes the other officials to laugh and point derisively.

(Of course, head coaches always opted for the less-conspicuous beeper until that 'technology added to aid technology' failed, embarrassing the head coaches. Now they throw a scrap of cloth that could have been Carrie's prom panties. If I could poll head coaches under the influence of mythical truth serum, my first question would be thus: "Don't you wish you could just chuck that beeper at the back of the referee's head?")

The referee immediately bristles, as do we all, for we know we have to sit through five minutes of unbearable boredom. He trudges over to the head coach and asks, in his best maitre d' voice, "How may I help you, sir?" In previous instant replay incarnations, this would be where the head coach would relish his opportunity to force the referee to stand quietly while the head coach shamed the referee for 30 seconds in front of millions of eyes. Now the head coach realizes this fine fellow is the one to make the final decision and should be rewarded for his trouble with cookies and milk.

The referees then jogs 100 yards to the peep show booth set up just for him on the sideline. We used to then stare at his ass for 2-3 minutes, sprinkled with 4-5 replays of the play in question. Now we have two choices: 400 replays of the play in question until we're sure Kevin Costner is in the truck or the quick toss to commercial that makes ad executives rub their crotches involuntarily. I consider the latter the merciful viewer death. (I'd speak up for those with game tickets here, but not even the league gives a passing shit about them.)

When mercy is not on the menu, the broadcasters spend the first six replays deciding on the outcome of the play and the other 394 in a clumsy soft-shoe, trying to stretch time. Of course, broadcasters are often as wrong as the original call, but there are two primal fears for the broadcaster: dead time and more dead time.

In their defense, there is no action to let speak for itself during the Instant Replay Slow Death; they're trying their damnedest to prevent the network signal from losing any desire to transmit itself about halfway to the satellite and collapsing in despair into the ocean.

When the instant replay official has come to the best decision that will not lower his weekly grade from Uncle Mikey (the same criteria used to initiate the "official review" at the end of each half), he jogs back to the field so the camera can pick up this:

"The ruling on the field stands. Sorry for wasting the last five minutes of your finite existence on that bullshit. First down!"

I usually miss this part; unless it's a game I have a strong rooting interest in, I've changed the channel by now. At the very least, I'm off draining the Super Dragon.

I've never quite understood the desire for "the 'right' call" and for strong accuracy in officiating. In a game that openly acknowledges "a holding call could be made on any play" and "you could call pass interference on either guy there", it's clear officiating cannot approach perfection any time soon.

For the love of Pete, first down measurements are taken by two overweight midgets holding orange maypoles connected by a chain that wouldn't hold your dog in the yard. You wouldn't let them drive you to the airport; why the hell would you trust them with your trifecta wager each Sunday?

To sum up:

I want instant replay to contract cancer from syphilis acquired during an extended stay in prison for illegal rare egg collecting. After dozens of rounds of chemotherapy and radiation treatment that sap its will to live but then rebuilds that will, brick by emotional brick, I want instant replay to hear those magical words: "in remission."

I want instant replay to step out into the bright sunshine of the hospital front entrance and feel flooded with joy and love, as if a higher power is filling instant replay with its light and recharging instant replay's soul.

I want this to happen to instant replay, for this is the moment I want to step behind instant replay and put a bullet through its skull.