Patriots fans and fantasy football owners alike were stunned and saddened by the season ending knee injury to quarterback Tom Brady. Today I’d like to start up a running feature called ChristBlog: a contribution from our Lord and Savior himself, Jesus Christ. Today, the man writes in with his reaction to the Brady injury. Take it away, J.C.
I have kept a watchful eye on you for your entire career, my son. In fact, I watched every game you played last year. I saw you running up the score on everyone – the Cowboys, the Redskins, the Bills. Your arrogance was duly noted and you paid for your sins. That humiliating loss in the Super Bowl loss last year was my father’s way of saying that hubris never pays.
Your knee injury, on the other hand? That was my way of saying you can eat my balls.
I’m not a vindictive type, Thomas. For the most part, I preach about kindness, and goodness, and turning the other cheek, and all that happy horseshit. But when it comes to football, I am cutthroat. Every week I watch the NFL games with Ben Franklin, Chris Farley, and Gandhi. When we saw you rip up the Jets in Week 1 last year, we realized that the Patriots were going to be something special. We all just hoped that you exercised caution with the powers you had. Because as you know, and my Dad has said this many times: with great power comes great responsibility.
Well you fucked it up, Tom. Fucked it up real good.
So break out the salt and pepper, baby boy. Get out the mustard, or ketchup, or A-1 sauce, or whatever you like. Maybe some relish, I don’t know. Eat them however you want, prepare them however you want. Think of that classic kid’s book How to Eat Fried Worms. Only your version will be called, How to Eat Fried Jesus’s Dick and Balls. Either way, you’re figuratively dining on my reproductive stuff. My beauteous, wondrous, amazing reproductive stuff.
When I heard that you’re season was over, I was glad. Glad to hear that apparently you got that Evite I sent out to all the pretty boy douche quarterbacks inviting them over to my ball-tasting party. The reviews are in, and my balls are a huge hit!
Ballsack? For you, it’s more like a ballsnack.
What’s that? You thought you were going to go 19-0 this year? You planned on scoring 50 a game on all the teams like you did last year? How about a better plan: chew on my Immaculate Scrotum. I can assure you, it sparkles like a dewy blade of grass in the morning sun. And because of my status as a heavenly being, it actually tastes like a Boston Creme Pie. However, even though it looks beautiful and doesn’t taste bad at all, you should still be embarrassed at the idea of being forced to metaphorically nibble on my glowing, heavenly junk.
I’ll admit, when you laughed at Plaxico’s Super Bowl prediction during Media Day, I began to set the wheels in motion for you to get messed up this year. Me, Lewis and Clark, and Johann Gutenberg got wasted one night and hatched this big scheme to have you injured. My originial plan was to have Favre run on the field and give you a figure four leg lock next week during a huge brawl, but I saw this really gay cologne ad with you in it last Friday and I couldn’t wait any longer. Come on, dude. Put a shirt on.
So, in conclusion: enjoy the IR, and eat my glorious, shimmering nutsack, Tommy.
Oh and just to warn you: if Matt Cassel gets cocky, Gisele’s getting turned into a pillar of salt. Take it sleazy.