File under: News That Will Surprise No One—the Patriots are cheating again. Using deflated balls during last Sunday’s game because they are easier to throw and catch. Well good. That is exactly why I root for them. What other trickery could they have also employed. I would love to know. I like seeing grandmasters like Bill Belichik get away with such trickery on the big stage. It inspires me. To be sly and inventive and find new, “alternate” ways to win. Before you ballyhoo cheating remember it’s the reason America exists. If we didn’t cheat the line ‘em up/mow ‘em down rules of war in 1776 we’d all still have British accents. Now we show up to war with 12 aircraft carriers and a thousand flying robots when everyone else is using 1980s Kalashnikovs and IEDs made out of rice cookers. Cheating is the American way.
And I cheat all the time because I’m playing a game I didn’t ask to be playing: I just woke up on this planet one day and these voices were telling me to get good grades and then get a good job and also try to be happy. That I really had two main choices: 1) cubicle or 2) homelessness. Also, that there were only two ways out: 1) early death or 2) decades of agonizing decay as I lose my memories and functions and transition into a stationary prune with bones of glass, followed by late death. Just remember death is mandatory, even if you end up liking it here. So—a game where you have to run around collecting pieces of paper with dead guys on it, and then someone kills you at the end. Well, fuck that. If you’re going to make me do this, I’m cutting every goddamn corner I can. I probably bribed some angel in Heaven so I’d touch down in the 80s as a white kid. Get the smoothest ride I could. Now I am always weaseling. Always thinking: what is the shortest possible route to a bullshit-free existence. My coffee, a book, a workout, a stout IPA. Girls are nice, too, if they will put up with me. So I moved to a country where I pay $7 for meds when I get a fever. Fuck car insurance, fuck mortgages. I go home to see family and it’s nothing but goddamn errands: call the shop to get the van’s brakes fixed, get a hedge trimmer from Home Depot, go put boxes in the storage unit, go buy gas for $4 a gallon to get around to do all these things. Christ, just—no. I only get one spin at this thing; I’ll pass.
The Reaper is coming and he is going to get me, but fuck him—he’s gonna have to sprint. You cheat him when eat your broccoli and drink your water and go for a hike and sleep for eight hours. He’ll be sluggish; he’s had a lot of easy kills recently from people with Doritos in their arteries. Eventually I’ll collapse and he’ll stagger up to me with his hands on his knees. And right as the scythe falls I’ll kick him in his dusty scrotum.
Anyway, go Pats.