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Like a cigarette in the wind
Never staying in the pocket when the blitz set in
And your footsteps will always fall here like so many dollar bills
Your cherry burned out long before
Your legend ever will
Life is fragile. Oftentimes, we don’t really appreciate someone until it’s too late. We take truly talented and gifted individuals for granted. Such is the case with a man we once called Johnny Football, one of the most dynamic drinkers to ever step foot onto the bar floor, who recently checked into a treatment facility, allegedly to deal with substance abuse issues.
Just like with 9/11, I’ll always remember where I was when I heard the news.
“It can’t be,” I said to myself. “The offseason is his time to shine!”
Alas, it is true; Johnny Football has become Johnny Rehab. There will be no photos of him chugging champagne on an inflatable swan this offseason, no videos of him rambling incoherently into a stack of one-dollar bills he is pretending to use as a cell phone, no raging with rappers or balling out with Bieber.
The liberal media will tell you that Johnny has issues with booze, that he’s in rehab to treat a dependence on alcohol, but I have a different theory. What if Johnny actually entered a treatment facility to deal with sex addiction?
Think about it. The guy loves to party with babes that are obviously down to put out, and he’s been spotted with numerous (Instagram) models over the last few years, but Cleveland isn’t exactly a hotbed for filtered tens, so he lowers his standards. One thing leads to another, and suddenly he’s banging multiple fives and sixes on a nightly basis. He’s out there just Wilt Chamberlain-ing with no regard for personal health or safety, swiping right so ferociously on Tinder that his thumbs burn, sticking Johnny Penis in every hole he can find. His sexual principles are completely derailed by Cleveland’s subpar pickings. He’s fatigued at football practice, having stayed up late plugging average strange in highly unconventional positions. His family, coaching staff, and girlfriend beg him to stop, but he can’t. He’s addicted to making fuck.
Manziel is already known as a debauched problem child, so his public relations team decides he should get “treatment” after the season under the guise of a dependence on alcohol, something that most of America already assumes he has issues with, rather than adding sexual deviancy to his list of sins. It’s genius, really.
But enough about my almost definitely correct theory. The real point here is that we have, at least temporarily, lost a legend. One more party star has fallen from the already dimly lit sky. Another rage icon gone too soon, but not forgotten. Now all we can do is sit back and reminisce on the Johnny Football of old. The one that shot the bird to the entire Washington Redskins bench during a nationally televised preseason game, raged in Vegas with a sparkler in his mouth and bottle of Dom in his hand, and wore a Scooby-Doo costume to a Halloween party where he was photographed grinding on scantily-clad coeds. Sadly, that Johnny might be dead.
I’m holding out hope for even just a slightly more responsible version of that Johnny, though. Otherwise, I just pray that Gronk maintains the party momentum he has built post-Super Bowl victory and carries it into a legendary 2015 Summer of Gronk, or the world will just be a dark, boring, shitty place. #RIPJohnnyFootball .
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