It's that time of year again.   It's a time when men across this great nation unite in rejoicing their most favorite season of the year … football season.  Ah, yes, the air is heavily laden with the aroma of testosterone.

I really don't understand the fascination.   Twenty-two guys with the combined weight of a tugboat butt heads like a bunch of mutant billy goats while one tries to run off with a ball that looks like striped camel dung.

They do this for about fifteen seconds of every minute in the one-hour game, which takes almost three hours to play because they spend more time catching their breath than a chain-smoker chasing a rooster.

It's not hard to understand why, given the size of some of these guys.  I've seen a few who couldn't get into my pickup truck with a pry bar and a tub of grease.  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but wearing an athletic supporter doesn't necessarily make you an athlete.

I guess the sport is good for teaching kids teamwork and camaraderie.  It warms my heart to see grown men congratulate one another by smacking their heads together.  It goes without saying that they've run into the goal post a few times too many.

And the star of the game has a few strange habits of his own. Take the way he gets the ball.  The ball is on the ground, and the fattest guy on the team who can bend over without blowing the seat out of his pants is squatting over it.

The quarterback sneaks up behind him, puts his hands where the sun doesn't shine, and starts counting.  Not that he can really count.

"Twelve, twenty-two, twelve, seventeen, twelve, forty-four …"  Then he yells "Hut!" until the fat guy gets tired of having another man's hands on his butt and smacks him with the ball.

I can imagine the first time a coach told the quarterback to do this.  He was probably being punished for throwing too many incomplete passes.  I wonder how that conversation went.

"You want me to put my hands where?"

And think of the poor guy bending over the ball.

"You want him to put his hands WHERE?"

There has to be a certain element of trust involved.  The fat guy has to know the quarterback won't make him stand up real fast.   And the quarterback has to know the fat guy won't … well, you know.   Sometimes he pulls his hands away before he even gets the ball.  Makes you wonder.

And if that doesn't bother you, think of this.   A lot of quarterbacks have this habit of licking their fingers after every play.   I don't think I ever saw Dan Marino without his fingers in his mouth.  Do I need to remind you where they were only a few seconds earlier?

It concerns me that schools encourage male students to imitate this behavior, but they're not allowed to say the Pledge of Allegiance.  "Put down that flag and get your hands back under his butt!"   Words to live by.

With all these masochistic derelicts running around, you have to wonder about the poor place kicker.  This is typically a Brazilian who's smaller than an anorexic jockey.

This guy gets my vote for bravery.  How'd you like to be in his position, racing to kick a ball while eleven overweight psychopaths stampede toward you like a herd of buffalo?  Worse yet, how'd you like to be the little guy at shower time?

The running backs don't have it much better.   Think about it.  You're faced with eight sumo wrestlers, each weighing more than a Studebaker.  Right next to them you have the wide receiver, whose waist is about the same size as my neck.  Who are you going to cream?

I don't deny that football is a popular sport, or that it can help teach kids some traditional values like fair play and teamwork.   But when the game is over and the butt slapping is done, let's hope somebody taught them something even more important … like how to wash their hands before dinner.