So what if all three of my Super Bowl titles are tainted? That’s three more tainted titles than you’ve ever won, you fucking piddling career backup.
You think you can turn this fanbase against me? Best of luck, kid. I made this fanbase, fashioned it with the sheer force of my rugged handsomeness. Before Feb. 3, 2002, there wasn’t anything but a bunch of empty fucking aluminum bleachers in Foxboro Stadium and maybe – MAYBE – a few bored Red Sox fans. I made the goddamn Patriots. Turned them into a brand and gave it meaning. You’re just keeping the throne warm. Shit, half the Massholes who follow this team think you spell your last name with two L’s. Still, YOU think you can be the man?
Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh. O-kay.
But now clueless pundits are on the cusp of defining my legacy as a system quarterback. Some fucking thanks I get for my 50 touchdowns last year. And like you look even half as good in your White Sox cap as I look in my Yankees hat when I’m parading around the streets of New York. God, I love that town.
If it weren’t for that asshole Bernard Pollard. That dick. For months I’ve thought of nothing but the furiously rakish grin I’d shoot that guy if I saw him again. And how fast I’d run to the sideline if he looked offended by it. That should be me out there against the Steelers. Shit, I’m 5-1 against them. No one, and I mean no one, is better at talking shit to the fourth safety on their depth chart then running away like a bitch when James Harrison shows up than I am.
I’d like to see you act like that much of a cunt today. In your moistest dreams, Moosetard.
And I know you’re the one who put all this extra bacteria in my knee.
I want my perfect life back.