Oh hello. I’m Jesus of Nazareth. Son of God. Bringer of Light. Emissary of His will on Earth. And I’d like just to say that Brett Favre deserves to eat shit and burn in Hell.
Oh, you want to unretire now, shitdick? Well, I say TOUGH TITTY. Two thousand years ago, I was forced to choose between being a mortal man and being the son of God. And I had to make that choice while I was nailed to a fucking cross with crows snacking on my eyelids. Did I hem and haw like a little bitch? FUCK AND NO. I bit the bullet and went for Door number 2. Am I happy with my choice? Good God, no. I chose being the son of God because being a mortal man in 33 A.Me sucked. Everyone smelled. The food was awful. I slept on HAY, for shit’s sake.
But do you see me getting all whiny about the path I chose? No. Know why? CAUSE I’M A FUCKIN MAN.
So you wanna play for the Vikings now, asshole? Well, Daddy already picked a Chosen One on their squad. So get bent. If you do manage to go turn that team into a goddamn soap opera, I got a radical new throw for you. It’s called a pitch-out. Give the ball to that fucker in the backfield who can run through an ice floe.
Otherwise, you can suck my holy balls.