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I’m sorry you hate the Patriots. I’m sorry you were led to believe that life was fair. I’m sorry you think that the people you come in contact with on a daily basis are playing by the same rules. I’m sorry that when my Patriot friends and I forgot to do our homework, the teacher forgot to collect it. I’m sorry that when you line up to get on the Minneapolis highway, a Miata comes whizzing by and merges in at the last possible second. You may hate that Miata. Send all the honks and middle fingers you want. But the opportunity was there, and it’s a simple merge. Take it or don’t.
“They’re cheaters!” you’ll scream from your one bedroom apartment while wearing your stain soaked Bengals sweatshirt. I would agree. The Patriots are the best at cheating, and it’s fucking delicious. Yes, delicious. I use words like that because when you say, “Did you just say delicious?” I just smirk at your disgusting, plays by the rules, mouth breathing face that asks for permission to say words that sound oh-so-right but seem just a bit off. Keep spending wasted minutes in line on a Minneapolis highway, listening to Natalie Imbruglia, waiting for your turn and then spend the day complaining about a Miata with Massachusetts tags. That’s why the Patriots are better. Because, while you’re cursing traffic and imagining Gisele’s left tit, the Pats are finding new rules to bend, and their quarterback is holding both of those perfect titties while thinking about the next chick he’ll bang when she bottoms out.
“But what about…” you’ll murmur. What about what? The judge who spent last weekend clinking champagne with Bobby “White Cuffs” Kraft in the Hamptons? I hope to God we find out the Patriots paid him off. I hope we find out they didn’t even use money, that they opted for baby elephant tusks because they no longer trusted the gold standard. I hope that wasn’t champagne. I hope it was virgin blood. I hope it rained on them like at the beginning of Blade. I hope Natalie Imbruglia was there to sing to them live. “Nothing’s right I’m torn,” she’ll croon, and everyone there will wipe a tear because that song is so fucking beautiful, and some lives are so sad. But not theirs.
In fact, let’s just take a moment and thank God for being alive to watch the best football team of all time. Go ahead, thank that black woman in the sky for giving you breath during the era of the iPhone, Tinder, the pill, and Bill Belichick’s beautiful boys. A 14-year run of excellence! During the salary cap era, no less. We should all feel lucky. This must have been what it was like to watch the United States during those World Wars. But, wait, you’d have probably cheered for the Germans, right? They loved rules and formations, and I think they spent post-war trials referencing air pressures and complaining about the U.S. spies that watched them practice.
So I’ll encourage you to talk about putting asterisks on those Super Bowl wins. I want you to spend all season complaining that the Patriots get every call or that Tom shouldn’t even be playing. Because your anger isn’t even about the Patriots; it’s about you. You stink at the things you can control — your bad job, your ugly wife, your stupid kids. So you put stock into the one thing that you like to call your own: your NFL team. But that’s the most enraging part, don’t you see? It’s a team that couldn’t care less about you, playing in a league that has proven to have zero regard or respect for its customer base. When referencing your favorite team, you say “we,” as if you were lacing up on Sunday, as if you didn’t just put on rubber-soled dress shoes to go sit in a cubicle for ten hours. Your life has no relation to football in the slightest, except for the fact that you like to watch grown men run into each other on Sundays, and yet you sit there talking about “cheating” and “morality” as if these nebulous notions mean anything in the context of that which is meaningless. And then, there are the Patriots, proving the absurdity of it all, laughing at the myth of sport while they all get pay raises and trips to the White House.
They’re a Miata on the highway, speeding by as your life slowly drips out of you. Yet you choose to spend the precious hours you have left, waiting in line and angry at…what, exactly? Go Miata. Go money. Go cheating. Go USA. And go Patriots..