Tom Brady, You Are Dead to Me

Perhaps my words are too strong. Once, maybe a fluke, a lost bet. Hell, I was once forced to sport a Colts t-shirt because of a bet I made with a friend. But I made for DAMN sure that everyone who saw me heard how much I hate the bloody, scumsucking, shitshow starring Peyton Manning Colts. The disguise for walking around Manhattan? BULLSHELOCKI!!! I am a Manhattanite, I often spend time walking around New York City, and ANYTIME I decide that I am far too lazy to do my hair (which is most days) I am sporting a Sox or UMass hat.

Now, had this been, oh KEN WALTER, or someone else on the team who nobody would recognize if they fell ass over elbows on them in Union Square, the knife wouldn't cut as deep into my soul. But TOM EFFING BRADY. The face of the franchise. The super sperm. The guy who single-handedly brought peace and happiness to all of New Engalnd on a cold February night in 2002. Men want to be him. Women want him alone in an stalled elevator for 24 hours (oh wait, is that just me)?

I will now spend the rest of the night crying into a Sam's Summer and dreaming about Jonathan Papelbon in that same elevator...

[Boston Herald]