As a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan, I grew up when it was normal for them to win the Super Bowl every year while still being too young to really care about football. “Oh, they’re hanging a third Super Bowl banner in four years in a stadium that’s fifteen minutes from my house? Meh, I’ll be eleven next year; maybe I’ll start caring before puberty hijacks my life for the next seven.” If only I’d known how good I had it.
I quickly matured and began to live and die by America’s Team, only to get shit on by the likes of Quincy Carter and lifelike, breathing, stone statues of former NFL players and human beings Vinny Testaverde, Drew Bledsoe, and Brad Johnson. I sat and watched an ageless Terrell Owens give 110 percent on the field, and then promptly go scorched earth on the sidelines and any semblance of locker room camaraderie. After watching these pieces of shit for a few seasons, you realize quickly that a franchise quarterback is the key to any kind of sustained success in the NFL.
In today’s world where media sycophants like Adam Schefter and noted incompetent jackoff Ed Werder actually matter a little, a true franchise quarterback can’t just be great on the field. He must excel on the field, in the locker room, and in front of the cameras. This guy must be a media darling who smiles pretty in the post-game interview, yet clearly mouths “FUCK!!!!” on camera at least three times during the game. We’ve only seen a couple examples of this new generation of franchise quarterback: Tom Brady, and to a lesser extent, Peyton Manning. Manning was a game-changer in 1998; Brady changed the game in 2000, as a collegiate backup taken in the sixth round from formerly-good-at-sports Michigan.
Right now, you’re mentally checking all the quarterback records and saying, “Are you kidding me? Peyton is way better, bro. Just look at the stats.” And that’s my point — Brady doesn’t give a hot shit about your opinion of him, proper football inflation, or any form of adherence to playing by the rules. He possesses enough AFC and Super Bowl Championship rings to flip you off with a ring on both middle fingers, to put a ring on each toe of his right foot, and to lose two rings somewhere inside his supermodel wife, Gisele. Oh, but you think he and The Hoodie cheated with “Deflategate,” do you? Yeah, they probably did. Meh.
Well, here are some Brady quotes from yesterday’s presser to let you know just how little of a fuck he gives about your douchey little inquiries, reporters. Honestly, it’s worth a listen just to hear all the uncomfortable references to balls and ball handling for thirty minutes. Anyway, in honor of the future first-ballot Hall of Famer’s number, here are twelve highlights from yesterday’s press conference, complete with translations for us mortal peasants to understand.
Translation: You are allowed to gaze upon me only because I have granted you this privilege. Just know that I don’t give a shit about what you’re going to ask. If I arbitrarily decide I don’t want to answer, I won’t. If that’s incriminating, good luck proving anything with your five-figure salary and modest home, you serf.
Translation: Yeah, I’ve had the same process for fifteen seasons, and you’d think I would notice if every ball I meticulously obsessed over and selected felt suspiciously low on air later on, wouldn’t you? Well, fuck you. Next question.
Translation: But Belichick doesn’t. That guy is a dead-eyed, sociopathic monster.
Translation: You idiots really think someone could mess with eleven out of twelve game balls in the AFC title game without me or Belichick knowing about it? Ugh, idiots. I could be porking a ten right now.
Translation: Gisele and I made a combined $80 million in 2012. Why am I even responding to this dildo with a clip-on tie and a cassette recorder? Just use your iPhone, dickhead.
Translation: Not only am I claiming ignorance of this under-inflation business, I’m sticking my head in the sand with regard to all allegations of anything. Check out this perfectly formed ass in your face, media trolls.
Translation: Man, I just told these cocksuckers that either it was divine intervention or the balls became sentient and deflated themselves. Watch, they’ll believe it, too. Golden Boy, what.
Translation: Well, it appears someone let the fucking air out of them. I need a scapegoat. Sucks to be you, random ball boy. I just brought this bag of shit to your doorstep and lit it on fire. Putting you on blast, son. You’re getting fired. Another sacrificial lamb offered to Belichick.
Translation: Holy shit. He just quoted me on record saying I preferred to throw deflated footballs. Look, that fatass is buying my horseshit explanation. I. Am. Bulletproof.
Translation: Seriously, I don’t see “Fun Police Pussy” in the description of Greek God-Like, Two-Time League and Super Bowl MVP Quarterback, do you? Trying to make me responsible for my actions and of those around me, eh? Bitch.
Translation: Well, I guess someone actually figured it out. That’s why I’m here with these clowns and not elbow-deep in a Brazilian supermodel.
Translation: You and the rest of these hillbillies can eat a Golden Corral buffet of dicks. I’m not gonna give a shit about your opinion anyway. Kiss the rings, losers. Golden Boy out.
Seriously, this fucking guy. The sheer balls. Deflects like Obama, feigns bewilderment like W., and lies straight to your stupid, regular, middle class face like Clinton. It’s time to accept this man’s greatness as a football player and as a human being. At first, it was hard for me, too. When my team was lucky to break six wins with noted horrible choice-maker Quincy Carter under center, this chosen asshole just strolled through the entire AFC setting records and presumably slaying top-shelf ass in the process. While he is basically a deity to slovenly, drunken Bostonians, he should at least be recognized by the rest of us as a man among poorer, less confident, less attractive men. I’m no Patriots fan, especially since I bet Seattle to win it all three weeks ago, but we all need to accept that Tom Brady has won at life. Plus, he’s hot..