Brady, Belichick Scramble To Take “Blame”
“It was the strangest feeling”, said unusually quiet Seahawks fan, Tommy Testicular, sitting quietly in University of Phoenix Stadium long after Super Bowl XLIX ended as the cleaning crew roamed ever closer with their hair raising, debri slinging, leaf blowers.
“My last clear memory is of sitting here waiting for Marshawn Lynch to cross that goal line and make every misstep, every road not taken, every sling and arrow of outrageous fortune in my heretofore so called life seem as dust in the wind, when suddenly I’m surrounded by cries of “Wha…Wha hapin?” and “Daddy, can we go home now?”
But the worst is the feeling of all that testosterone rushing to my nether regions, swelling my clangers to twice their size and rousing the old Bald Headed Butler to think he’s about to embark upon a two week orgy, and then, nothing, nothing at all.
When our sympathetic reporter asked Mr. Testicular if he could sum up his painful feelings in one word he sat silently for awhile and then quietly said, “Deflated. Deflated is the word.”