Philip Rivers: I’m having a crisis of faith, Lord. I always do the Christian thing. I spoke out against the premarital fornicators. I campaigned for Rick Santorum. I filled my quiver with seven beautiful fuck miracles. I donated alms to the poor. Okay, I donated an autograph to the poor. I mean, I think he was poor. He smelled bad. He was probably poor.
But it’s another year and despite my many triumphs, this team is lost. Once again, they’re gonna keep me from winning a Super Bowl. It ain’t fair! Rapistberger has two. The smaller, gayer Manning has two. You even let a “Joe Flacco” win a Super Bowl! When’s my turn? I’m running out of time. Even I can’t play football forever. What’s gonna happen when I’m a former quarterback starting my own Opus Dei offshoot without a Super Bowl ring? Nobody will follow me!
What more must I do? I’m at my wit’s end. I desperate, Lord. You have to help me. You just have to! Please, God, please!
[Clouds fly open]
God: YA BETTA GROVEL TO SOMEBODDDDAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYY
Rivers: God! You heard me!
God: ‘Course I did. I hear everything, butthorn. And who couldn’t hear you carrying on like a little whimpery bitch? Reminds me of my bleeding heart, nancy boy son. Always crying for the meek and dispossessed and shit. I try to tell him it’s a big waste of time – I fucked them for a reason – but you can’t get through to that kid.
Rivers: So you’ve come to help me?
God: Didn’t I already help you by getting Norv Turner fired? You do know the Chargers originally planned to keep him for another 10 years? I really came through on that one and here you are, already hitting me up for more favors.
Rivers: And I thank you, Lord. But all of Norv’s fuckups are still around, pissing away my greatness, err YOUR GREATNESS. For it is you who is responsible for my every achievement!
God: Yeah, yeah, don’t blow smoke up my ass. Let’s see what I can do for you…
Rivers: Oh, thank you, thank you, God. You won’t regret this.
God: I don’t regret things. I’m infallible, dumbass.
Rivers: Of course, of course. Forgive me.
God: Here’s what I’m going to do: I’m lending you my holy Bolo. It’s an all-powerful weapon capable of wreaking destruction of anything in its path. Basically, it fucks shit up ’til there’s no more shit to fuck with.
[Bolo Yeung appears, growling while clenching and unclenching his fists]
Rivers: Oh ho ho ho, he’s BAD. ASS. What’s he gonna do, play defensive end?
God: No, I’m afraid my Bolo doesn’t bother with your weak game for the frail and mortal. Too much mercy, not nearly enough slaughter. Instead, he will track down your enemies and pound them until their brains leak out their peehole. In a way, just a very accelerated version of the sport you play.
Rivers: Hmmm… that’s good, I guess…
God: Oh, for My sake, what now?
Rivers: Well, if he does that, it makes my Super Bowl – OUR SUPER BOWL – look less impressive if Brady and Peyton die from leaky brain dick.
God: FINE. There’s no pleasing you little shits sometimes. Here, take this sacred bolo tie. Wear it on all gamedays and know that I will intervene on your side.
Rivers: A bolo tie? What am I, a Texas Congressman?
God: JUST TAKE IT, FLOAT BOY. It was blessed by a Mexican priest. Mexicans fucking love me so you know it’s legit.
Rivers: Thank you, Lord. Thank you. Thank you. When I will a Super Bowl, I’ll be sure to thank you no later than third.
God: See that you do. Oh, and Phil…
Rivers: Yes, God?
God: For the love of Me, stop having so many fucking kids, you asshole.