Hello, World. This is Peyton Manning. I told you. I told you Tom Brady was a gay girlie man, and you didn’t believe me. I told you that he and his butt-buddy coach cheated, and you didn’t care.
Now, as the Super Bowl fast approaches, I am faced with a grim circumstance: Either Brady will win the Super Bowl this Sunday, finish the season undefeated, and become the greatest QB of his generation, or my goober-faced little brother Eli will win.
These are not viable options for me. It is under these stressful conditions that I tell you, World of Hammys, that I am in possession of a Nuclear Fart, and I am willing to use it.
For the past weekend, I have been eating nothing but Momma’s chicken wings and drinking Daddy’s PBR. Morning, noon, and night. And though I have experienced some anal leakage, I have kept myself from going to the bathroom or even letting out the tiniest squib of a fart.
It is very painful. But I am saving it for the right moment. Either surrender the Super Bowl to me, World, or I will sneak into Super Bowl Media Day on Tuesday, and I will let loose the Mother of All Farts.
No one is safe. But there is no reason for me to resort to such stinkage. The choice is yours, World.
PS - Hey, did anybody see Djokovic win the Aussie? That kid has a lot of hair!