You, sir, are a deity unto which I have never worshiped before.
Not only do your magically delicious powers allow you to perform such artful aerial ballet with what our team loosely calls “receivers,” but they also gives you the ability to stave off — from the sidelines — the heart-wrenching, last-minute offensive drives being conducted BY THE OTHER TEAM. The drives, as you may know, that send me and my follower Jets’ fans head first into the clam dip in apoplectic fits week after week after week.
What’s your game, Brett? It is telekinesis? Vulcan mind meld with the opposing QB? No, don’t tell me. I don’t care. Just keep it up!
And, as if that was not enough proof of your superhumanness (or your pact with Beelzebub), you somehow divined the destruction of Tom Brady — our, neigh, YOUR most-evil rival’s quarterback — via the most foul season-ending ACL injury ever.
Did my mention of that particular malady in my last missive spark your imagination?
No, no, BF, my new BFF … it’s all you. All you.
Now, I’m not a man who asks for much, but if could you, somehow, some way, … say, will my children into bed by 8 p.m. each night — homework done correctly, backpacks stuffed and ready for a new day, teeth minty-Crest fresh, etc.? And, with that done, if you would wish my My Love into the mood and into that, um, special, uh, thing I’m thinking about right now. You know, the one. The thing that gives me the shivers and the sweats?
That’s all. Screw the Super Bowl. Grant me this and I will never ask you for another thing again. Ever.