Tom Brady Is Dead (to Me) (Actually I Don't Care) (LOL)

At the risk of sounding “Sportsball!” I must announce the retirement of NFL legend Tom Brady, a man who I primarily know from kissing his son on the lips and refusing to eat strawberries. There are many ways to live, and I can’t condemn a person for the choices they make as long as they’re not hurting anyone else (other than in the ways sanctioned by the gameplay of his sport). Maybe Tom Brady’s son liked kissing him, and strawberries are often tastier in artificial extracts than in real life.

Much like life itself and Brady’s friendship with President Donald Trump, it seems the QB had his ups and downs in the court of public opinion. It’s a story as American as apple pie or head trauma: one day you’re a young GOAT, the next you’re 44 years old and have somehow made a series of decisions that landed you in Tampa. You’ve got seven rings and one sports-based NFT platform exclusively distributed on DraftKings.

Retirement sounds good, but the monotony of occupying the long, idle days until death with golf and exercise and school drop-offs and introducing nightshades back into your diet agitates you. The ego death for a retired stud can be crushing. Will you feel like one of those guys who peaked in high school and then grew insular and ornery and distrustful of progress and tomatoes?

I don’t have all the answers. I’ve barely started my career, and I don’t have a shaman on retainer like you do. But I wish you well. Kiss kiss.