A Letter From Tom Brady’s Poodle
Listen, I’m gonna need you to cut me a break here. I’ve got a couple of things working against me. First, I’m a poodle, and most people think poodles are pussies. Also, Tom Brady’s my owner, and most people think Tom Brady’s a pussy. Well, let me clear a couple of things up for you. I’m a poodle, but I’m not a pussy. And Tom Brady … well, I can’t lie to you, Tom Brady actually is kind of a pussy. But don’t hold that against me, you judgmental son of a bitch.
I’m writing because I just need to vent for a little bit. Don’t worry, I’m not suicidal, and I’m not going to run away or anything. But sometimes, life here in Tom Brady’s house sucks, and I’d like you to know about it. I don’t have a lot of friends. Humor me.
You wanna know why Tom Brady has a poodle? It’s because he thinks that if some random cocktease out there sees him pick me up, squeeze me and call me “A good little Mr. Fluffers” in some goddamn baby voice, that it’ll make her panties all wet. And it probably works … I mean, five nights a week, that guy’s pounding a different slice of poontang. All because he “loves his little Mr. Fluffers.” Horseshit. My name’s not even Mr. Fluffers.
To tell the truth, I don’t even have a name. Seriously, I have no name. The son of a bitch never bothered to give me one. Brady went to some adoption thing they were having at Petco on a Saturday, looked at the clerk and said, “Yeah, gimme that fluffy thing back there, some food, a shock collar, a newspaper to beat it with, I guess … I don’t know, whatever you give dogs. And by the way, sweetheart, my name’s Tom, and I’ll be inside you soon.” Next thing I know, I’m stuffed in a brown paper bag in the back of his Escalade, listening to him ram the Petco’s girls ass off of the steering wheel.
He thinks he’s so smooth. Tom just owns me so he can show off and pretend like he’s sooo confident in his masculinity that he doesn’t mind owning a poodle. That’s bullshit. It’s all an act. You remember that GQ spread Tom did, where he was holding a goat? He wanted me to be in that originally, but I bit his hand and told him to go fist himself. And then I raped that goat. No kidding.
But listen, Tom Brady’s got nothing on me. No bullshit. At the shelter, my nickname was “The Playtex,” because I was constantly in some beaver. I used to get it all the time … and if they wouldn’t give it to me, I’d take it. I raped a German Shepherd once (I’ve got a little bit of a problem with rape). You should’ve seen that litter of puppies. Ugliest things you’ve ever seen … I’ve been dodging alimony checks for three years on those mule-faced little bastards.
And listen, I know it shocks you to hear that a poodle can be a mack player like me, but it’s true… I just happen to look like a big pussy, because I’m a poodle. Hell, most people think all poodles are girls, but I love it when I “accidentally” give them a glimpse of the red rocket, and their eyes get all big, like, “Wow, that thing is HUGE.” And yeah, dollface, it is. And it pounds like a jackhammer.
Tom’s never had me fixed, which is the one nice thing I can say about him. The downside to that, though, is that he’s never had me fixed because he just doesn’t care. The dumbass doesn’t even know where the vet’s office is, and I’ve been pissing blood for about a week and a half. I wouldn’t mind getting that checked out.
So let me tell you about my life here. A sit in a pet carrier all day, and sometimes, the maid shoves me some food, maybe some water, if I’m lucky. I’ll sit here and sleep for the better part of eight hours. Tom comes home in the evenings, and if I start crying and whaling like I’m giving birth, he’ll say something like, “Fine, I’ll let you out if you’ll just shut up for a while,” and he’ll get off his ass and let me out. Then I spend the rest of the evening waiting for Tom to screw someone, so I can watch.
Sometimes, other things happen first. Like, sometimes Coach Belichick will come by, and he’ll usually kick me and call Tom a “fag” for owning a poodle. And then Tom will say, “Hey, it gets me laid,” and then they’ll high-five, and I’ll just sit there and wish that either of them would grow up.
Later, when Belichick leaves, Tom stands in front of a mirror and cries about being called a “fag.” Then he’ll go read some fawning article that Peter King wrote about him, and it makes him feel better. He’ll slap himself on the chest and say, “See, I’m not a fag!” and then listen to some Pantera for about ten minutes, before he turns it off because he remembers that he actually hates Pantera. This happens every goddamn time Belichick comes over. Every time.
But, just about every other night, I’ll walk around and try to watch Tom charm the panties off of some girl. Most of the time, it doesn’t take long. He’s like, “Hi, I’m Tom Brady,” and she’s like, “Oh? Well, let me show you a few things about my labia.” It’s tough, you know … back at the shelter, I was sending the red rocket into orbit daily and nightly. Over here, I’ve got to settle for watching supermodels get pounded.
It’s not fair, though, to make me just watch … you think I wouldn’t like to get on Gisele Bundchen for a little bit? You think I didn’t want to dirty-up Bridget Moynahan? You think I didn’t want to mount Tara Reid? Okay, I actually did mount Tara Reid once, but she was shitfaced, and she didn’t even notice. That’s probably because I couldn’t touch the sides.
I should probably get going, though. Belichick’s leaving soon, and if I don’t hide, he’ll kick me again … I swear, I hate that asshole.