Oh, NFL RedZone, you glorious, caffeine-fueled beast. Where do we even begin? You’ve become the saving grace of football fandom, the reason Sundays are no longer reserved for anything productive. Wedding? Nope, sorry, we’ve got seven hours of commercial-free football to attend. Brunch? Only if the restaurant has RedZone on. Family time? Sure—if the family gathers around you, Scott Hanson, our high priest of touchdowns.

But let’s not act like you’re perfect, because at Hot Garbage, we’ve got a reputation to uphold, and gushing praise without a side of sarcasm isn’t really our style.

First off, your addiction to the words “witching hour” has broken our brains. We’re Pavlovian now. You say it, and we’re suddenly hyperventilating at the possibility of blown leads, missed kicks, and questionable coaching decisions. You’re basically the Oprah of game chaos—“You get a fumble! You get a missed PAT! You get a heart attack!” It’s beautiful, but also borderline sadistic.

And can we talk about the pacing? Watching RedZone feels like what we imagine it’s like to drink 47 Red Bulls and try to do your taxes. One minute we’re locked in on a crucial 4th-and-goal, and the next, you’re yanking us to a Texans-Panthers game because someone’s thinking about attempting a field goal. Scott, we love you, but sometimes, let us marinate in the chaos for just a second before dragging us to the next dumpster fire.

Then there’s the commentary. You’re the only show on earth where someone can casually say, “That’s four touchdowns in seven minutes for the Dolphins,” and we don’t even bat an eye. You’ve desensitized us to football absurdity. You’re like a 24-hour diner that only serves adrenaline and heartbreak, and we can’t get enough.

But the biggest gripe we have? You’ve ruined the rest of football for us. Watching a single game now feels like sipping tap water when you’ve been chugging high-octane espresso for hours. No updates, no octobox, no split-screen madness. How are we supposed to go back to regular broadcasts when you’ve conditioned us to expect everything, everywhere, all at once? It’s cruel.

Still, we wouldn’t trade you for the world. You’ve made us fans of chaos, aficionados of carnage, and believers in the power of a poorly-timed timeout. And when that clock hits 1 p.m. Eastern on Sundays, you own our souls. So keep doing what you do, RedZone, because we’ll be here, snacks in hand, ready for whatever glorious mayhem you throw at us next.

Yours in touchdowns and trash talk,

@L0RDofTheTrash

Hot Garbage