I'm still saving this rant for the trash talk thread tomorrow, but might as well beta test it:

You know what? I'm getting real sick of all your shit, /r/nfl. "Oooh, I really want Peyton Manning to have a storybook ending to his career." "Uh oh, looks like I'm cheering for the Rest-of-America Not-the-Patriots again this year." "They can't keep getting away with it!" You know what, /r/nfl. Go tuck yourselves in, because I'm about to tear into your quivering assholes here.

Every year, we have to put up with wave after wave of bullshit about how awful all our success is. How having the greatest QB ever makes us vile scum, and how by even being a fan, we are on par ethically with the Galactic Empire and Count Dracula. Well, guess what? You want us to be evil? You want us to be the villain? Fuck it, we'll be evil - we'll be your villain. Just remember two fucking things. You made us this way, and second, this isn't fantasy - this is the grim dark reality of every day life.

You want Peyton to have a storybook finale? Guess what - his stroybook is a fucking Shakespearian tragedy. " 8 Chicken Parm, I've come undone 8." It's a grim bloody fable, with an unhappy bloody ending. A sad old man, past his prime, being undone once again by the younger, smarter, handsomer, stronger man that outdoes him in everything, as he always has. And his sad, pick-6 riddled performance will be all that anyone remembers.

Then, you'll wake up on Monday morning. You'll get up to the annoying, awful buzz of your insufferable alarm clock, and still somehow manage to get to work 5 minutes late. Your irritiating idiot of a boss will chide you for it, before you begin another miserable eight hour day in your tedious, boring, shitty job that you have no chance of escaping from for the rest of your life.

You'll look around you and watch as you grow older, your friends aging and dying, as you settle in your marriage, shit out a pair of irritating, mediocre children, and slave your way through the sad, used-sofa experience that is the American middle class. You'll watch friends and family members fail to hang on, falling to alchohol, drugs, and desperation. You'll witness the death of every childhood dream you ever had and held dear.

You'll look around you as your water becomes more polluted, your city infrastructure delapedates, your country in permanent decline. You'll realize that you're living in a nightmaring corproate dystopia, where every second of your life in controled and structured just to keep you as a passive slave consumer. You'll wonder just what happened as President Trump is sword in, and suddenly corporations have the right to own slaves and freedom of assembly is permanently cancelled. You'll cry a little when you're financial histroy is now recorded by your DNA, making your ever-growing debts permanent and inescapable.

You'll realize that mankind is a failed and doomed species. You'll finally realize, too late, that the environmental damage to our planet is too severe, and that our existence is limited and finite. You'll realize that your dreams of Star Trek and space travel will never come to pass. You'll watch the planet slowly transform into a Mad Max, Cormac McCarthy hellscape, as wildlife dies out, plants and trees wither away, and biker gangs murdering for fuel are the only remaining institutions.

You'll finally recognize that humanity is trapped on a bleak, dying planet, in a vast, cold uncaring cosmos. A universe that doesn't care about you, and never wanted you in the first place. And even that harsh reality is made more miserable by the fact that everything is expanding towards an unstoppable heat death, from which there can be no escape - simply the end of all things forever.

On Monday morning, as you travel to your insufferable work, as the toxic acid of these thoughts melts your mind, you'll suddenly realize that the worst part - of all of it - of everything I just said - is that the New England Patriots are going back to the Super Bowl. This isn't fantasy, this is the grim inescapable reality of your bleak and horrible existence.

When asked about what the future would be like, George Orwell responded, "Imagine a boot, smashing in a man's face, forever." The boot smashing in the faces forever? It's Tom Brady's Ugg. We're on to Super Bowl 50.