You gotta get me the hell outta here. You got a phone book? Go get it, call an animal shelter, and tell them a dog is being abused. I’m not using the word “abuse” lightly here. Why don’t you live with this obnoxious jerk for a week or two, and we’ll see how you like it. Seriously, do whatever you have to do, but get me the hell out of here.

Why, you ask? Well, for starters, my name is “Chris Berman.” I kid you not. And that’s just a nickname, my full name is actually, “International Superstar, The Beloved Chris Berman of the Worldwide Leader In Sports, ESPN.” Seriously, that’s what the guy named me. Lucky for me, he only uses my full name sometimes, like when he’s mad at me. But that happens pretty often, because I try to run away three or four times a week.

Everyday, he comes home, and he grabs my face and says, “Ohhhhh, look at you, Chris Berman, the most handsome and virile of all the breeds.” Then he’ll look at the ceiling, exhale hard, and then start rubbing his chest. Right about then, I vomit some Alpo, and then eat it again.

Sometimes, he’ll take me to PETCO to get food, and we’ll walk in the door, and he’ll go, “Hey, where’s your food, International Superstar, The Beloved Chris Berman of the Worldwide Leader In Sports, ESPN? That’s right, it’s in the BACK-BACK-BACK of the store!” Then he’ll laugh really loud, and look around and say, “Yeah, that’s right, I’m Chris Berman,” even though no one’s really looking at him. One time, he pulled a Sharpie out of the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt an autographed a lady’s Yorkie. She didn’t even ask him to.

And on the rare occasions that he isn’t staring into a mirror and practicing different ways to ruin the NFL draft, he’ll sometimes play with me. He likes to toss a chew toy at me, let me pick it up, and then knock it out of my mouth and yell, “It’s a FUMBLE!” This amuses him to no end. I don’t even care that he knocks the toy out of my mouth, but if I hear “FUMBLE!” one more time, I’m going to slice open his carotid artery. It might’ve been cute the first time he did it, back in like 1988, but this guy acts like yelling “FUMBLE” makes him Richard freaking Pryor.

I’ve even heard other people talk about how they feel bad for me. Every other week, Berman has a bunch of other ESPN people over. He says he’s having a “party,” but when they get here, he makes them sit down and watch a highlight reel he put together… of himself. Once, when he went into the kitchen, I heard Steve Levy and Stuart Scott talking about how it was inhumane, what this guy was doing to me. Stuart Scott threw a $20 bill in my doghouse, which was nice and all, but I’m not sure that he’s aware that dogs have no use for currency. Not the brightest of guys, Stu, but he seems nice enough. He also calls me “dog” a lot, but I think he does that to everyone.

Listen. Come get me yourself. I’m a good dog, I swear. I’m house-trained, I don’t slobber, I’ll play with your kids, and I’m completely capable of tearing the throat out of anyone who breaks into your house. I’ll go jogging with you, I’ll pose for your Christmas cards, I’ll even watch SportsCenter with you, as long as you promise to change the channel when Berman comes on. I’ll do anything you want, but you have got to get me the hell out of here, or you will soon hear of the first ever Bull Mastiff suicide.