You punched a driver.
Now you’ve given us a Cup.
We love you, white-boy.

I go to the airport to pick up my friend Frey. He’s returning from his latest appearance on the Oprah show. He appears at the door of the plane, slouched against the flight attendant. Frey’s shirt is torn and covered in blood and snot. I stare at his swollen, gashed face. Some of his teeth are missing. He smells like shit.
What the fuck happened to you?
She ambushed me, man. She fucking ambushed me.

Oh God. Another stenciled, silkscreen nightmare. Her bangs don’t look all too real. Like a hooker’s wig from a secondhand store. Don’t even get me started on the lipstick. Any redder and she’d be bleeding.

Look at her: mouth agape, arms cradling her head. She’s either a poorly-posed mannequin or a corpse. I feel dead just looking at her. What is she supposed to be? Girl next door? Whore? A short-skirted combination of the two?

Hey, did you see that touchdown? Wasn’t it amazing? We won the game, and I was the hero!

Do you know how I did it? Years of practice and self-sacrifice? Half a lifetime spent working out, getting bigger and faster, and watching film of the opposition? I thought you might say those things.

Nope. Guess again.

What? You give up? OK, I’ll tell you.

God.

Yep, The Big Man Upstairs. He guided that ball right into my hands. Sure, our quarterback, Eli What’s-His-Name, threw the ball, but without the Lord keeping it aloft on a perfect course right into my grasp, who knows? It might have been intercepted.