By Ben Beaird
For the past seven years of my life, I have had Tom Brady shoved down my throat so far, during one of the next few sojourns into the restroom I expect to “Drop a Brady.” Tom Brady. Tom Goddamn Brady, Thomas Edward Patrick Brady (for those of you keeping track, that’s a firsty-firsty-firsty-firsty, meaning this man’s parents had the balls to add an entirely extraneous name to the unwritten standard firsty-middly-lasty pattern that serves as the basis of American genealogy, then furthers their venture into Bullshitburg by forgoing any last name at all. It ends up sounding like a horrible drum beat that never climaxes.)
This past year, his numbers skyrocketed due to thirty-one NFL team’s apparent boycott of the 2007-2008 season*. It is a season I do not accept in the record books. Just as I have taken it upon myself to obliterate Barry Bonds’ career from my memory, so too does there stand a gaping hole in my football timeline which the media has tried to fill with their enormous boners for Tom Brady.
Careful research has shown that the average cable subscriber cannot experience a moment in time where Tom Brady is not being discussed on at least one channel. For a man who speaks fewer words publicly than Stephen Hawking, an alarming amount of words are directed towards the holy throne on which he now seems to sit. The ratio resides somewhere around 3:106; that’s a prolific erection. What they’re really saying is: Tom Brady is better than you. And they aren’t just addressing the regular Joes salivating over every screen pass Tom throws that inexplicably ends in a fourteen yard gain, they’re talking to everyone: business executives, astronauts, teachers, other NFL players (past and present), bartenders, etc. Never mind that Tom knocked a woman up and peaced out to shack up with a Victoria’s Secret model, never mind that nothing insightful or charismatic has ever breached his lips, never mind that he’s been listed under “Probable” every game for four seasons with some vague shoulder injury and limps around town in a cast allegedly remedying an ankle injury no one’s ever really proved he sustained.
Yet sportswriters are pitching tents all over the country. Tom Brady has proved untouchable, just like the anti-boner he induces in me. Because, when I see the long dong of the media extending ever higher toward Tom Brady’s ivory tower, my own is forced backwards from whence it came to a stage of my life unseen since my mom’s first trimester.
No amount of Viagara or thoughts of Brady’s new girlfriend Gisele can recover that which is lost when I catch word of the man with the sphincter chin. What good will the common phallus serve when Brady, in the near future, claims all the world’s females to sire an entire population of individuals called “perfect” so many times, they are eventually lifted from the earth as a result of heads so inflated by the social priapism we are warned about in Levitra commercials.
The chain of events that leads to this begins when Brady inevitably wins the Superbowl today against a twelve year old Eli Manning and a New York team that has yet to figure out just how the hell it is that they made it this far (I’ll tell you Mr. Strahan, it’s because Favre chokity-choke-choked).
And so now may begin a new era in which football is to be virtually ignored by me, at least until the Tom Brady sentiment becomes, as it should be, flaccid.
*It should be noted that Rodney Harrison did not actually cross the picket line, but was legally required to play football by the federal court, as they could not find an alternative way for him to burn off the horse steroids choking his system.
