Bob Costas is like the funny guy who hangs around your living room getting barbecue potato chip crumbs in all the little crevices of your sofa, and he never leaves because his wife is divorcing him and he doesn't want to go home, but it's okay because he makes you laugh and he points out all the absurd things that are occurring around him and on the television, and you have to love the way he narrates the Olympics because he's always got a slight smirk around the edges of his mouth, and it's almost like someone doing a comical impression of a sports commentator rather than an actual commentator, and he's so sweetly dorky that you think if you were set up on a blind date with him you'd have a great time eating eggs at the diner and laughing, but at the end of the night he'd try to kiss you and you'd kind of duck to avoid it and there'd be an awkward silence, after which you'd tell him that you really like him as a friend, even like a brother, but that you just don't think you're ready for a relationship so soon after your last break-up, so then you'd let him hang out in your living room as long as he wanted, getting potato chip crumbs in everything, because when it comes down to it he's just a little boy with too much pomade who just happens to be smart and preternaturally knowledgeable about sports, and after three or four months of this, you'd probably fall in love with him anyway, because if love is about anything, it's about laughter, and no one does laughter like Bob Costas.