It’s Time For Tom Brady to Lean Into His Weirdness
Here we are again, folks. The New England Patriots are going to their 500th straight Super Bowl. For the last 4 or 5 years ESPN talking heads, radio personalities, and my uncle have continued to say Tom Brady was slipping. They said he was getting old. They said he was tired.
And how did he respond? He put his head down and walked us calmly to the Super Bowl time and time again.
It wasn’t the first time they doubted him. When he was drafted they said he had the body of a long toddler. When he won his first Super Bowl some suggested beginners luck. When he won more Super Bowls they credited the coach. When he won more Super Bowls they accused him of having soft balls—- But they were wrong. His balls are rock hard.
Some of the haters grew weary. They got tired. There was nothing left to criticize. They would open their mouth and then Tom would shut it.
Until one fateful day in early 2018 —— just when the trolls were about to wave the white flag. When it seemed like all was lost… Tom Brady french kissed his son on video in Tom vs Time.
Was it a mirage? Could years of swinging and missing have left the haters delusional? No, it happened. To quote the 1993 cinematic masterpiece The Sandlot, “He kissed him long and he kissed him good.”
Finally! ..after years of misery—- the haters, and the pigs, and the cowards had something to cling to. Light shown through the clouds onto their cold, wet faces. It was like God herself handed the trolls a slice of heaven—-No matter what anyone said about Tom Brady’s greatness they could always respond, “yeah but he frenches his son.”
What should Tom do now? How does he respond when people call him a son frencher?
I’m here today to speak directly to our Lord and savior. Tom are you reading this? Is that you? Are you getting my texts?…because I keep getting a green bubble and I’m pretty sure you have an Iphone.
Anyway, here’s my advice,
Dad Tom. It’s time to lean into how fuckin’ weird you are. It’s time to embrace your skeleton face and milk white body. I want you to wear more coats that make you look like a soccer mom. In fact, I want you to double down on your blouses.
Why? You ask. Because it’s the only thing left, Tommy. You’ve beaten everyone in every way possible. You proved the haters wrong. You married a model. At this point you’re expected to win. You couldn’t possibly humiliate the Max Kellerman’s or the Mike Felger’s of the world anymore than you already have ———- Unless…
…you let your freak flag fly. Everyone expects the handsome guy with the rocket arm and the 10 million dollar mansion to beat them in the Super Bowl. You know what people don’t expect? To get beaten by a 43 year old man who shows up to the game in a dress and a duck mask.
I want to see you play football in tap shoes. I want you to release a line of limited addition TB12 silk scarves. I want you to take the first three games off next year to run for Mayor of Key West.
It’s time to ramp up the plastic surgery. Get an operation to look like your opponent and then beat them with their own face.
The only way you could possibly make the haters lives anymore miserable is to hit them with something unexpected. Get braces. Start riding to games on a Great Dane. The doubters’ heads will pop off when they watch you make-out with your son wearing 10 Super Bowl rings.
You can no longer make them sad scoring touchdowns and flashing that million dollar smile. It’s time to throw a 40 yard bomb and then look into the NBC television camera and ask your wife for a divorce because you need more time to work on the script for your Broadway Musical. Murder them with music, Tom. Kill them with lipstick on.
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