That wasn’t Portugese Brady was furiously bellowing on the sidelines last Sunday, although he reacts the exact same way at home when he accidentally opens one of Giselle’s giant paychecks in the mail. As a hall-of-fame caliber member of the team, I happened to be within earshot of The Tominator when he unleashed his profanity-laced tirade. Apparently, he misplaced one of his many ridiculous puffy hats that seem to get welded to his head every Winter, and ironically blew his top when the beloved garment was found on the bench resting under none other than buffet-bustin’ Vince Wilfork’s gargantuan rump. Even worse it was right after one of the human bowling ball’s infamous halftime chili dog runs. Needless to say, the poor hat was destroyed virtually beyond recognition. Incidentally, I have a sneaking suspicion Brady only wears the ugliest of the Patriots headware so that people will actually buy the goddamn things. Some of those monstrosities look like they got puked on by a crayon box.
Back to the dramatic gas attack. As Brady colorfully bemoaned the loss of his favorite of the ten-thousand different goofy puff ball bonnets that have graced his golden noggin, he was also unwittingly starring in a new cheesy football wives reality show, “The Brady-Bundchen.” The cameraman kept a tight shot, closely following around a cursing madman like it was a Scorsese movie, while the embarassed announcers acted like they were auditioning for a silent film. And while Brady relentlessly fired one F-bomb cruise missle after the next, he was inadvertantly causing innocent casualties hundreds of miles away. It was like a verbal drone attack.
Brady’s blow-up caused an unprecedented outpouring of outrage from countless sickened citizens. Well, actually you can count them: three. That’s right, fuckin three. A trifecta of twats somehow has the power to drown out the literally millions of the voiceless masses who couldn’t be bothered to give a fuck about some fuckin fuck sayin fuck. And he didn’t even say it, he mouthed it. First Johnny Manziel’s middle finger went up the league’s ass, then Colin Kaepernick got half a fine for saying “Nigger” and now Brady’s Public Enemy No. 1 with the lip reader’s of America. Just imagine if Kramer’s Tourette’s-inspired stand-up routine happened last week. The PC police would have cut out his tongue.
The three mal-cunt-tents who got sand in their vaginas over naughty language all shared the same complaint: they’re horrified that their goddamn wimpy brats were watching. And you wonder why little kids are such pussies these days. My first words were “Cunt” and “Fuck”, and my parents couldn’t have been prouder. The complaints were e-mailed to the FCC (Faggy Censorship Cocksuckers) by two of the snotnose’s parents, and telegraphed by one of their grandparents. That old coot’s got some ‘splainin’ to do by the way, because he should be far enough removed from Generation Douche to not get infected by it. He must have Alzheimer’s, because he’s clearly forgotten how to be a man.
The most watched game of the season was hijacked by less people than it takes to fill a phone booth—not that these youngins would know what the hell that is. More people were hit by lightning while watching that game than complained after it. Brady’s not a fuckin cameraman any more than he’s an anger management counselor. Don’t shove a lens in his face on the sidelines if you don’t want see uncouth behavior, and don’t let your cowardly offspring watch football if they’re gonna have nightmares over some stray potty talk. The supposedly offended children in question were six, eight, and ten. What little kid isn’t a PhD in Swearology by then? You can bet their conveniently forgetful parents and grandparents sure were at that age, and they didn’t have the internet to bone up on their boning. Remeber looking up “Fuck” in the dictionary in grade school? It was fantastic. Nowadays, kids can look up people actually fuckin. You really think covering their eyes and ears when the expletives start flying is a substitute for parenting?
Besides, I couldn’t care less if any anklebiters were offended. We adults should be mindful of what the ancient children’s philosopher Playdough once said, “Little kids smell. Little kids stink. So who gives a shit what little kids think?”
The man was a genius.