A Twinkle in Time

AFC 1st Seed -- New England Patriots (*-0)

[Jan. 19, 2002]

Phil Simms: A season hanging in the balance. Here comes the ruling from Walt Coleman.

Walt Coleman: [On PA] After reviewing the play, the quarterback went through a forward throwing motion, brought the ball back into his body, then fumbled it. Therefore, the ruling on the field stands. First down Oakland.

Greg Gumbel: And it's all academic from here on out. Charles Woodson forces the Brady fumble and the Raiders fall on it. A fine season from New England's young quarterback, taking over early in relief of starter Drew Bledsoe, but it will come to an end here this evening. Meanwhile, the Raiders will move on to meet the winner of tomorrow's Steelers-Ravens game in Pittsburgh. And head coach Bill Belichick falls to 1-2 in three career playoff games.

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[Six years later]

[Quincy Bean Cannery]

Robert: Ay, ay, loogit what I found in little Tommy Brady's lockah. Under all the straaaberry rubbahs and pahsitive pregnancy tests.

Brady: Aw, come on, man. Stay out of my stuff. I'm trying to stay up on Manu Chao.

Mike: Bet ya'd like tah git ya some a'that, eh? Ya fackin' Caleefourkneeah queeah.

I know I'd tear that ass up right propah. She's good and rail thin, but she could benefit from having a little less of the ethnic in her, ya know? Waaaa's she from, Brazil? She might be some jungle bitch a' something. Have a caaaapybarrrra a' something crawl outta the cunt. Like my dick should be wearin' a pith helmet.

Robert: Ay, Brady. What'd I tell ya abaat wearing Yankees shit ahn tha jab? Ya think cause yoo use'ta play a little bawl with the Paytree-uts, the rules dan't apply to ya?

Mike: Like the Paytree-uts are even a fackin' team. I ain't never even been ta one-a their games. Fackin' loosuhs. Haaadly worthy of my loyal allegiance.

Robert: Face it: If ya ain't on the Sawx in this town, ya ain't shit, pally. If you play for the Paytree-uts, should should prahbabbly just kill yaself. Like that one colored who showed his face here last week and killed hisself by getting his car door slammed in his face a couple dozen times or so.

[both laugh]

Mike: Ay, Tommy. I need to see ya the break room.

Brady: [exhales hard] Not now, man. I'm trying to get some work done.

Mike: Am I fackin' askin' ya? Move ya shit, shitbawx.

Robert: You fackin' tell 'um, super Mike. Super Mike Forevah!

[break room]

Mike:[opening refrigerator] Those ya tacquitos right there?

Brady: [peering in] Uh, nope. Not mine.

[Mike pulls knife around Brady's neck and bends him over a table]

Mike: Good. So I'll have something to eat after ya give up that ass!

[Pulls down Brady's pants and forcibly enters him]

Brady: [stifled screams under Mike's hand]

Clarence: Ddddrrrreeeaaammmmboat.

Brady: Clarence!

Clarence: What a horrifying turn of events. I can make it all as it was, Tom. I just need to know that you've learned the values of fairplay and humility. That you're ready to stop headbutting your teammates and pretending like you're a major badass so long as you have some Norse woodsman protecting your blindside.

Can you forswear the avarice and lustful pride that twisted your once pure spirit? And for fuck's sake, are you done with the pageboy caps and velvet blazers, Nancy?

Brady: [breaths bated by the continuing penetration] Oh, I have learned those things. I am prepared to live by that code. I've changed, Clarence, really I have.

Clarence: So we're ready then?

Brady: No...no.

I'm pretty sure I'm good here, actually.

Clarence: But, but, Tom! The accolades? The titles? The fame? The glory? The Andrea Kremer restraining orders? Riches attending a legacy that will live on for generations? Don't you see a mistake it would be to throw it all away? All this you would abandon in favor of occasional coerced buttsex in a bean cannery break room by a galatically douchey Masshole?

Brady: That's about the [winces sharply]...ooof, the long and short of it, yeah. I mean, so long as he shares those tacquitos.

That’s Right. It’s John Moynahan, You Heartless Bastard

Oh Tom, look! It’s a boy! We had a boy! Or, to be more accurate, I had a boy. You didn’t do jack shit. He’s mine. All mine. In fact, I just came up with his name. I think you’re gonna like it. It’s John Edward Thomas Moynahan.

That’s right. John Moynahan, you heartless bastard. No Brady for you. Oh, were you hoping to continue your name on through future generations? Well then, you better start riding Gisele bareback, if you aren't already, you negligent prick. You don’t even get the middle name to yourself! Ha! I’m making you share it. In fact, I put Edward first in the middle name pecking order, just to piss you off.

No man betrays the Bridge and gets away with it.

In fact, I’m gonna make sure he grows up to be nothing like you. He’ll be generous, and responsible. And you know what else he’ll be? Gay. That’s right. I’m gonna raise him to be super gay. Positively flaming. Know why he’s named John? It’s after Johnny Weir. I’m gonna dress him in girly clothes, make him watch hours of Bette Midler movies, and send him to performing arts school. He’ll be hitting London discotheques by age 11. Shit, he'll be gayer than Hugh Jackman. And there ain’t shit you can do it about, you lecherous fiend.

Oh, did you want him to play football? Sorry. No football in the Moynahan household. No, I think he’ll be playing lacrosse. Lots and lots of lacrosse. He won’t care about touchdowns and fly patterns, because he’ll be too busy prancing around a field twirling a basket on a stick. Suck on that.

It could have been different. I’m no slouch in the looks department, my man. But noooooo, you had to have it all. You had to go trotting around the globe with that little fucking Brazilian strumpet you call a girlfriend. Think you can just knock me up, avoid the altar, and then keep living the high life, do you? "Oh, let's do it without condoms, Bridge! You won't get pregnant if we do it standing up!" Liar. Time to pay the piper.

So say hello to John Edward Thomas MOYNAHAN. Hope you like seeing him in pink onesies, you fucker.