mr. manning (have pity on the losing man)

Dear Peyton Manning,

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this to you or not, Peyton, but I was actually the manager at a Books-A-Million for nearly half a year back in the thick of that Pokemon phase a few years back. It sucked, and I was witness to something really sad and pathetic during my brief tenure that will haunt me the rest of my days. I even fear that it will flash before my eyes just before death to fill a quota of “sad and pathetic” things in that proverbial slide show that greets us like the rolling of life’s credits just before our sad demise.

Anyway, trust me; this has everything to do with you. Just listen.

You see, these little kids would gather in the clearing around the magazine racks every Saturday to have their weekly Pokemon tournaments. Parents essentially dumped their kids on us for a day, Peyton. You know how that sort of thing would certainly bother me in most situations, but I’ll remind you again that I was in management and therefore had any number underlings to send out for dealing with children or the disgruntled.

One of the common problems the underlings reported back to me with there in that small office with my books and free coffee—and this is the sad and pathetic part, Peyton—was the despicable phenomenon of freakishly nerdy teenagers who would show up, compete against these little children in their Pokemon tournaments, and then sometimes even trash talk their recently vanquished enemies now squatting there on the carpet, many times in puddles of their own tears. Bear in mind that these freakishly nerdy teenagers drove themselves to the bookstore to do this. They had access to a car on a Saturday, Peyton, and they chose to spend it defeating small children in a pointless Japanese card game. I don’t know about you, but back in Alabama we went around either drinking or breaking shit when we had access to vehicles on the weekend. Sometimes both.

Hell, even if your Saturdays consisted of Archie chaining you and little Leroy—or whatever his name is—to a tree in the backyard and beating you with mannequins dressed up as linebackers until you both became better mealtickets quarterbacks you still had a more noble Saturday than the bastards I just spoke of.

Anyway, here’s what this has to do with you: You see, Peyton, The Titans secondary—hell, the whole defense—is sort of like those little children who get left at the bookstore. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, but our secondary will impede your passing game about as effectively as a basket full of legless kittens. I don’t know why the kittens are legless, Peyton, but I’m here to tell you that there is no honor in exploiting the situation just to make your stats look good.

In fact, our secondary reminds me of my playing days back in high school. We were horrible, and each of the coaches would tell us about how much better their grandmothers would be in our respective positions. They would then add that their grandmothers were in wheelchairs. They would say things like you couldn’t cover my grandmother, and she’s in a wheelchair or the offensive line was blowing holes in the defense wide enough to wheel my grandmother through…and she’s in a wheelchair.

I don’t know why all the grandmothers used to be paralyzed, Peyton, but I always suspected it had something to do with all that Polio business back a long time ago.

Anyway, I came to hate and despise all those grandmothers. You see, Peyton, I was out there busting my ass. We sucked but we at least put forth an effort, and I never saw any of those chickenshit grandmas show up to try and take my job. Grandmas are all talk, Peyton. Remember that if Tony Dungy ever pulls that shit with you guys.

That being said, I really don’t think Lamont Thompson or any of his well intentioned, yet inadequate Titan brethren could cover my grandmother. She’s not in a wheel chair but she’s frail and she’s ninety-two. Hell, a wheelchair would probably speed her up a bit.

Anyway, you guys won’t need her. You may meet some resistance on the defensive line, but the pass threat will be enough to weaken that. Besides, one of our main run stoppers—a fellow former Vol, in fact—went batshit crazy and Tennessee Waltzed all over some guy’s unhelmeted face last week.

This means that Albert Haynesworth will be gone for quite some time, and my sources at Titans headquarters tell me that their going to try to fill his vacated roster spot with someone who will help stop that nosedive in the ratings.

Anyway, just bear in mind that any given member of our defensive squad could snap and go batshit crazy if the game gets out of hand and that a stomped-in face equals no commercials.

Well, you’ve been kind to listen, Peyton, and I only ask that you go out and get really drunk Sunday morning or try and pass with your feet or let Archie play or do something along those lines to keep the game interesting.

Please.

Sincerely,

Rex