I’m sorry, Jerry Angelo.
I know I told you back in March that I wanted to retire this arm. I know this arm has been shoulder-blade deep in some of the hottest pussy east of the Mississippi, but I thought it was high time for me to pack it in. I love throwing deep posts. It’s in my blood, which courses constantly through my engorged phallic sacs. But I wasn’t ready for the mental commitment necessary this year. I was tired. I wasn’t ready to for the difficult mental task of having woman after woman drench their panties with sweet ladymilk after watching me heave one downfield to Rashied Davis on 3rd and 37.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through with it.
But a funny thing happened. My fourth wife came up to me in June. And she said to me, “Rex, you’re a cumslinger. You need to go sling some cum, and get my gash gushin’.” Then I talked to my 33 illegitimate children scattered around the globe. And they all said the same thing to me, albeit in different languages and dialects. “Daddy,” they said, or papa, “Daddy, we want to see your dragon spit hot fire.”
And I realized: I can’t walk away from that, Jerry Angelo. It’s just so. Fucking. Hot.
Now, I know you committed to Kyle Orton being the starter here when I made my decision. I understand that. I also understand the potentially devastating flood of both media attention and smegma my decision will cause. I know this puts you in a tight spot. And I sure as hell mean no disrepect to Kyle Orton. I spent two weeks in Brazil with that guy, two weeks I will never, ever remember. I acquired auto-immune diseases that hadn’t even been invented yet. He’s a good fucker.
I’m sorry about all the attention this huge QB controversy has caused. I know there’s a 2PM SportsCenter special on right now chronicling my next move. What is Rex REALLY thinking? Does he want to be traded? Has his plane landed yet? Did he bang the stewardess while she sat on top of the sanitary napkin dispenser? (Quick answer: yes) I saw Erin Andrews wearing a sundress around here earlier. God dammit, she is fucking HOT. She touched the back of my head when she talked to me. She fucking wants it. I’m gonna throw the ball in front of her so hard, she’ll tear a pelvic floor muscle. And I don’t give a shit what Mariotti thinks of that.
I think the best thing here is for us to go our separate ways. I don’t want to make this difficult. I know you face a huge amount of scrutiny no matter what you do, and I’ll be doing a whole lotta screwtinizing no matter where I go. But let’s end the stiffmate now. Release me. Or trade me to a contender. Like the Packers. I’d love to bust a hole in some backwater Wisconsin tail. Lotta guys don’t go for the fat ladies. But I’m not afraid. It’s more exciting than white water rafting.
I can’t stay here as the backup. You know that. You saw those five people that were waiting at the airport for me, all of whom I paid to be there. They won’t stand for me being the backup. They already have sites up, like bringbackthearmfucker.com. You won’t be able to stand the pressure. Shit, the only reason I’m here is because Roger Goodell reinstated me after I told him I wouldn’t bang anyone else on the team training staff (I lied. Gimme more sweet assistant trainer ass please.). We can’t have an open competition here. Once I open up this arm, you’re gonna have one cum-soaked field.
Let’s just agree to part ways here. Stories have been planted. Words have been said. Buttholes have been fisted with dishwasher gloves. It can’t ever be like it was.
Time for me to sling my cum somewhere else.