Greetings, individuals worse than me at football. It has been brought to my attention by my Armenian house servant, Galymov, that the press has made quite the stir about my injured foot.

Anyway, I had just tasted the fruit loops he prepared for me and found them steeped in the milk for approximately ten more seconds than I requested. Well, I set the bowl down on my coffee table (which is also an Armenian slave, this one dipped in lacquer for solidity) when I noticed the headline.

What? Moi, injured? Poppycock.

So allow me to clarify something: I am not injured, unless injured means “just ate a gold dipped baby deer for breakfast and then had sex with a supermodel with my playing card stapled to her forehead.” Now if it means that, then yes, I am injured, totally injured you plebeian scumbags.

My foot is fine, there are simply some minor bruises, consequent to having to stomp on a wide receiver’s hand for missing one of my gift-wrapped missile passes (it’s in all the wide receivers’ contract).

But I assure all of you, including you Eli “Farty Booger Butt” Manning, I will be there on Super Bowl Sunday. That is, if Galymov hurries up with my baby seal foot warmers and mocha latte methamphetamine smoothie.

Ah, now that that’s settled, I think today I’ll kill a cat and throw it against a tree.