That fight could have ended in one of two ways:

1) Floyd’s gasp-worthy sucker punch combo lands, Ortiz gets K’d the F O, Mayweather becomes one of the most reviled wangbags in sports history, then engages in one of the greatest ever interviews with Larry Merchant; or …

2) Floyd methodically beats up Victor Ortiz, thoroughly and non-violently, over 12 long rounds.

We got the long end of the stick here. We saw enough of the fight to know, clearly, that Mayweather was the better fighter, and that’s the key ingredient to a satisfying outcome, right? You want to know who was best? We got that. And then, as a special bonus, it turned into one of the most entertaining scenes you’ll ever see in sports, and high-quality conversation fodder that will last for weeks.

We won in this deal. For once, a boxing PPV was worth double what it cost.

As for Ortiz, he was the most fortunate man in the MGM Grand last night. He wanted a way out of that fight, and he got it. He knew he couldn’t win. I think that’s what the blatant, indefensible headbutt was all about.

And then, Ortiz gets done with his guard down, and he becomes a folk hero. He’s a rallying point for every Money May-hater out there. If none of that craziness happens, he’s just another guy who got his ass whooped by Floyd Mayweather, but now, he’s some kind of victim, he’s the “everything that’s right with sports” to Floyd’s “everything that’s wrong”, he’s paid, and he might even be in line for a rematch and another payday.

There was a reason he didn’t get mad at how the fight ended. He knew exactly what was happening to him. He didn’t feel robbed, and he didn’t feel cheated.

The only thing that would’ve been better for his career was a win. But that was never an option.

As for fair or unfair in regards to the punches themselves, I don’t care a great deal. All the obvious things are true: It was unsportsmanlike, it was legal, it is Ortiz’s responsibility to protect himself at all times. It was weird, but it happened. If it had gotten in the way of us knowing who was the better fighter, maybe I’d be more upset about it. But we know.

Also, a note to Larry Merchant: Well-played, my man. I think Merchant was right that Floyd knew a Pacquiao question was coming next, and he went into some theatrics to duck it. I think Merchant, with a bit of a wink, dove into the theatrics with Floyd and gave us the “If I was 50 years younger, I’d kick your ass” line. It was brilliant.

We don’t get a chance to say this very often, but DAMN GOOD SHOW, BOXING.

(I thank you for not updating your bookmarks or RSS reader.)

Last night, he arm-triangled the life out of Shane Carwin, who was supposed to be the guy, finally, who Lesnar couldn’t push around. He was as big as Lesnar, hit as hard as Lesnar, and like Lesnar, had an outstanding wrestling pedigree. By a wide margin, he was also the more experienced fighter, having worked his way up from the smaller promotions and came into the fight with a sparkling 12-0 record.

And Lesnar beat him. With a freakin’ arm triangle, of all things.

But last night’s fight isn’t what I want to talk about. Lesnar the MMA fighter isn’t even what I want to talk about. Lesnar the phenomenon, Lesnar the baddest man on the planet, Lesnar the insane athlete you really should make an effort to watch because guys like this don’t come around very often … that’s what I want to talk about.

Let’s take a step back, and big picture, look at everything this guy has done athletically.

At the end of his high school wrestilng career, he didn’t get a single scholarship offer. So he took the Junior College route. As a freshman, he was an All-American. As a sophomore, he was national champion.

I’m thinking someone should’ve probably given him a scholarship.

From there, the Minnesota Golden Gophers did bring him in, but how would Lesnar do against D-1 competition, particularly in the powerful Big 10? As a junior, he was runner-up for the National Championship. As a senior, he won it.

Again: No scholarship offers out of high school.

After college, he got into pro wrestling, which is a damn shame, because it took a massive toll on his body, and that time could’ve been spent doing something else truly amazing. Fortunately, though, the WWE career only lasted three years. Lesnar quit because he felt like he wanted to play in the NFL, despite the fact that he hadn’t played a down of football since high school.

Let’s pause and think about that for a second. To start with, playing defensive line in the NFL pretty much requires you to be one of the chosen few genetic lottery winners on earth. On top of that, all the other genetic freaks out there have been working non-stop for the last seven years on their technique, and their knowledge of the minute details of the game, while Lesnar was … I don’t know, powerbombing John Cena.

Do you know anyone who could quit their job right now, and go have a reasonable chance of making an NFL roster? Can you even think of any pro athletes who could leave their sport and make an NFL team? No names are coming to my mind, and if there were, they’d also be guys who belonged in the conversation for “best athlete in the world.”

Lesnar came up just short of the NFL. He was one of the last cuts for the Vikings, and afterwards, they asked him to go the NFL Europe, get some seasoning, and then come back and try to make the team again.

That he even got close to the league is silly. Pro football is the chosen sport for the world’s best big-man athletes, and only the best of the best ever get close to the NFL. Lesnar damn near made it, pretty much on a whim, and probably would have gotten there if he’d have been willing to spend a year in Europe, away from his family.

Instead, he chose MMA and despite once again having zero experience and going against guys who have been doing it their whole lives, he very promptly became the World Heavyweight Champion.

He lost one fight — his first in the UFC — and since then, has owned the heavyweight division. He beat up workhorse veteran Heath Herring, took the title from legend Randy Couture, and avenged his loss to Frank Mir.

Which brings us back to last night’s Carwin fight. Lesnar hadn’t fought in a year due to a serious illness, and in his first fight back, he beat Carwin, who had mowed through everyone else in the division. And not only did Lesnar beat him, he answered two questions everyone still had about him: What would happen when he faced some adversity in a fight, and could he win with skill, as opposed to just sheer size and athleticism?

It wasn’t the prettiest win you’ll ever see, but it was still an amazing performance. If not because of who he beat, how he beat him, or what he overcome to get there, then because it was still just his sixth professional fight. He’s still a relative babe in MMA, and right now, there’s not a heavyweight out there who can touch him.

What Lesnar is doing is sick. It doesn’t make sense.

What he did in college — going from zero scholarship offers to national champion — was sick and didn’t make sense. That he stepped right out of the world of piledrivers and boston crabs and nearly made an NFL roster — that didn’t make sense, either. That he got into MMA in 2007, was the world champion in 2008, and is the baddest man on the planet today, again, doesn’t make one damn bit of sense. These are not things that normal human beings can do.

Brock Lesnar is a special athlete. I don’t know if the general public will ever recognize him as such, because he’s an ex-pro wrestler in a sport that’s still on the periphery of the mainstream and still misunderstood by many. I don’t know if there’s anything he can do about that.

All I can tell you is that when I watch Lesnar, it feels like I’m watching something special — like I’m watching one of these athletes that doesn’t come around very often. The guy that comes to mind the most when I try to think of someone to whom I can compare Lesnar is Bo Jackson. I felt like Bo had the natural ability to be great at damn near anything. He was a rare and special guy, even when standing alongside the best athletes in the world. I get that same feeling when watching Lesnar.

About 15 million of you watched us play Ghana on TV, and I’m sure a great deal many more cared in some way about what happened. Check out this PostmanR article on ESPN.com about the interest in the World Cup. Landon Donovan’s goal against Algeria tore Twitter a new one. People were into this. It came in varying degrees, I’m sure, with some of you caring in that brief, fleeting “I hope our kids beat Taipei in the Little League World Series” way.

But I think there were some of you who found yourself caring a lot more than you thought you would. We tied England and you thought, “Hey, we might not suck too bad at this, and anytime I can enjoy leaving a smug Brit feeling suicidal, that’s something I’d like to be a part of.”

Then came the oh-so-dramatic Donovan goal against Algeria, and how could you feel anything but bliss? The stakes and the timing made it about as dramatic as sports get, and you’d have had to have a heart made of stone to not feel a little bit of something right there. Maybe it was joy, maybe it was pride, or maybe it was something just like you’ve felt during other great moments of fandom in your life.

Admit it, you really wanted us to beat Ghana. We’d have had a fighting chance against Uruguay or South Korea, and if we’d have gotten to the semifinals, who knows? At the very least, it would’ve been a hell of a ride there.

I think you wanted it. I think you came into the World Cup without even considering the possibility that you’d invest in it emotionally, and then you did.

Do you know what that means?

It means that you could like soccer.

If this World Cup has convinced me of anything, it’s that the general sports-watching American public can enjoy soccer. It’s not a boring game. It’s not too low-scoring. It is not unmanly or un-American. It’s a fine sport, as enjoyable as football, baseball, basketball or anything else.

By and large — and I realize I’m painting with a pretty broad brush here — I think the United States has failed to embrace soccer because we never felt like we were any good at it. If you can’t win, why play, right? Let other countries fight over the silly little game where you aren’t allowed to use your hands. We’ll stick to things we invented and can dominate.

But we’re decent now, and that changes things. We’re not a pushover for a single team in the world. Not for England, not for Brazil, not for France, Italy, Holland, Argentina or anyone else.

No one’s saying we’re as good as those countries, of course, and we might never be. But we can compete. We can envision a day where our name can fit in right alongside anyone mentioned in the previous paragraph.

I think, over the last two weeks, you’ve found that that idea appeals to you. If we can compete at soccer — if we can have moments like Dempsey’s goal against England, the furious comeback against Slovenia, and the glorious release of joy against Algeria — then yes, this game is just fine. It is perfectly enjoyable and exciting.

On top of that, soccer offers a bonus that almost no other sport can: the chance to support an underdog on an international level. Even if the future of US Soccer reaches the most optimistic of projections, we’re still going to be viewed as underdogs for a long, long time. And well beyond that day, if it ever comes, the traditional European soccer powerhouses will still be looking down on us. Not even our awesome steroids can help us here. We’re fighting an uphill battle for a long, long time.

If you like what you’ve seen over the past two weeks, I encourage you: Stick around for a while. Not just for the World Cup, but for European club soccer, for the MLS, and for local high school and college soccer. Give it a chance. Breathe it in for a bit, and see how it makes you feel.

Support breeds success, success breeds more support, rinse, repeat, and the next thing you know, we’re a much stronger soccer nation because of it. And the next time we play England, we don’t celebrate a tie. We bend them over, and we jam it in.

You can like this game. You know damn well that you can.

If you didn’t know, I’ve left the FanHouse, and am now bringing the straight blog filth over at Yahoo!.  You can find me here on the NFL tip, and sooner than later, also on the College Basketball tip over there.

One day in, I’m finding the Yahoo! audience to be a lot like the FanHouse audience, except way
more sensitive about multiple personality disorder.  Of course, there’s always the possibility that all of those comments are from Herschel Walker … or maybe, upon further review, I wasn’t sensitive enough to a serious illness.  I dunno.  I didn’t think it was that harsh.

Anyway, if I manage not to get fired before then, I’ll be doing some cool stuff over there in the coming weeks.  Perhaps you’ll join me.  If not, YOU’RE A DIRTY MOTHERFUCKER.

Whew.  That felt good.  Cleansing.

Levi Jones: Congratulations on that contract you signed with the Dolphins, Joey. I’m sure the Dolphins will turn it around real soon.

Joey Porter: Whatchyou mean, WILL turn it around? Motherfucker, the Dolphins turned it around the second my pen hit that contract. Joey Porter turnd that bitch around RIGHT NOW just by showin’ up.

Levi Jones: Sorry man, I was just… I’m sorry, okay? Let’s play some blackjack.

Joey Porter: No, I tell YOU when we play some blackjack. I tell EVERYBODY when to play blackjack.

Random Guy (to dealer): Seventeen? I think I’ll stay.

Joey Porter: NO, I DON’T THINK YOU WILL. (Porter grabs the man by the shirt, lifts him off his stool, and kicks him in the rearend.) NO, I think you gonna GO, OLD MAN. Go on, get on outta here. Go wash my car, motherfucker. It’s the black and gold Hummer H2 with the license plate that says, “K2ISAFAG.”

Random Guy: It’s black and gold? I thought you played for the Dolphins now. Aren’t those the Steelers’ colors?

Joey Porter: No no no… Them’s JOEY PORTER’S COLORS. When I left, the Steelers changed their color to PINK. VAGINA PINK. The Dolphins wear black and gold now, and the Steelers jerseys are the color of your wife’s pussy. In fact, where is that bitch? I’m takin’ her to Sherwin-Williams right now, put her coochie on that machine, and Sherwin’s gonna match that color exactly. That’s what the Steelers is gonna wear next year.

Random Guy: Listen, I’ll wash your car if you promise not to kill me, but… I’m sorry, I can’t let you take my wife to Sherwin-Williams so they can color-match her vagina.

Joey Porter: FINE. Then they GONNA COLOR-MATCH LEVI JONES’ VAGINA (Porter kicks the air).

Levi Jones: Joey, come on, man. Calm down. If you want to stay here and insinuate that I have female genitalia, fine. But leave that old man alone, okay?

Joey Porter: Leave him alone? Don’t EVEN come at me with that shit. You think Jerramy Stevens left Joey Porter alone before Super Bowl XL? HELL NAH. But I went out there and busted some motherfucking asses anyway. Don’t NOBODY leave Joey Porter alone, everybody ALWAYS HATIN’. But I’m champion anyway. ALL Y’ALL DO IS HATE. WOOF, WOOF, WOOF!

Levi Jones: Here he goes with the fucking barking…

Joey Porter: WOOF, WOOF, WOOF!

Random Guy: How long is he going to be doing this?

Levi Jones: Sixty minutes. Maybe more.

Dealer: Do you think it’s okay if we play blackjack now? I’m going to get fired if I don’t deal.

Joey Porter: WOOF, WOOF, WOOF!

Levi Jones: You probably shouldn’t.

Dealer: Can’t you do something? Calm him down, maybe?

Levi Jones: Joey. Hey, Joey, listen. Joey? (taps Porter’s shoulder)

Joey Porter: I’MMA SOCK YOU IN YO’ MOTHERFUCKIN’ EYE. (Porter then socks Levi Jones in his motherfucking eye.)

Levi Jones: (rubbing his eye) God DAMMIT, this gets old.

Joey Porter: Don’t you NEVER disrespect Joey Porter’s shoulder. YOU AIN’T WON NO SUPER BOWL. I’m a WORLD CHAMPION, and you ain’t nothin’ but a mark-ass, playa-hatin’, dog food eatin’, tiger-stripe wearing tub of GOAT SHIT.

Dealer: Man, he’s changed since he won a Super Bowl.

Joey Porter: You got that wrong, white man. I didn’t win the Super Bowl, the SUPER BOWL WON JOEY PORTER. The Super Bowl was LUCKY ENOUGH to have #55 grab that cheap-ass chrome trophy. I use that motherfucker as a HOOD ORNAMENT. I clean my GUTTERS with it. I got a female pitbull that uses that big silver bitch as a dildo, and the ghost of Vince Lombardi SMILES EVERY GODDAMN TIME IT HAPPENS.

I don’t know if that was his wife that was so excited about it… but that guy got to see both of her perms that night.

Anyway, SI.com has a gallery up right now if the most insane tattoos that their readers have. All of them were sort of jaw-dropping since they’re, you know, sports tattoos, but a few stood out. I didn’t believe this one was real:

But it is. I don’t know if the statement on the man’s head is actually true, but it is a real tattoo. A radio station gave him Laker playoff tickets to do it. The same guy, on the same radio station, has also been tasered by Game, had mace squirted into his eye, and eaten worms. Shaq should probably sue this guy. I mean, I wouldn’t care if someone started a rumor that I did a guy, but I’d be highly offended if it was that guy.

Among the other highlights: the Bears with with Buddy Ryan’s signature inked into his back, the guy with a portrait of Mike Tyson with the words “TEAM TYSON FOR LIFE” under it, and two older soccer fans with tattoos on their hairy chests. Those two, I actually sort of respect, because I have no doubt that those gentlemen would kill (and have killed) to defend the honor of their teams.

It’s not only bad news for Terry, as he’s battled injury problems all year long (edit: Terry seems to be okay, and will likely play the next game)… but it’s bad news for soccer, because now everytime someone takes a dive, they’re going to demand the oxygen and a neck brace, or no one’s going to buy it.

There was also a bit of a fight. Observe:

I guess that qualifies as a fight. Toure hits the guy, followed by the briefest of pauses as both men think to themselves, “Holy fuck, we’re fighting… so we really wanna do this?” And it continues from there, with some very serious pushing, jostling, and calling each other “bloody wankers.”

Chelsea won, I’m sorry to say. Two Drogba goals did it for them.

I don’t know what to tell you here… it’s Norv Turner. Norv is like Ann, George Michael’s girlfriend on Arrested Development. There’s no reason to ever remember or think of him, until someone brings him up and you go, “Him?”

Anyway, I’m trying to be optimistic about things. Maybe, you know… maybe Troy Aikman’s right, and Norv will be a fantastic head coach. Maybe he’s not a loser, through and through. Maybe Norv has some kind of an inner winner that none of us know about. I’ve come up with three reasons for optimism:

• Unlike Marty Schottenheimer, Norv doesn’t have a reputation for sucking balls in the playoffs. Of course, that’s because he hasn’t had a chance to build such a reputation. He’s only been a head coach for one playoff game (which he did lose). But the fact remains, Norv does not have a reputation as a playoff loser. Just regular season.

• Norv has never taken over a good team before. In his two previous head coaching stints, he took over a Redskins team that went 4-12 the year before. With the Raiders, he took over for a Bill Callahan team that… well, they were coached by Bill Callahan. Maybe he’s got a special gift for taking over good teams, but is terrible at taking over bad teams. Plausible.

• I did enjoy the time he spent with the Chargers as their offensive coordinator… and I think both Phil Rivers and LaDainian Tomlinson will benefit from his being there. Honestly. As long as they don’t want a “winning record.”

That’s all I could come up with. I honestly am trying to keep an open mind about this. I didn’t want Marty to be fired, and I didn’t want Norv to be hired (and yes, I’m on a first-name basis with both of them), but it’s not like I have any say in the matter. My search for reasons for optimism will continue.

Tim Hardaway Did Not Spend Valentine’s Day With a Dude
Hardaway Apologizes; Amaechi Appreciates the Honesty
Tim Hardaway Loves to Stay at the YMCA
Tim Hardaway Has Been To a Gay Bar
The Maloof Brothers Wouldn’t Employ a Homophobe
Because This Had To End With Tim Hardaway Being Nude On YouTube
Tim Hardaway’s Gay-Friendly Car Wash

And then I read the second leg of his apology, and I started to feel a little bit bad about it. His second stab at saying he was sorry was much better, and seemed much more sincere. And after a weekend of hearing Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith say Hardaway’s a good guy (though, clearly, Kenny has much left to understand about the gay issue), I should give him another chance. It is possible for someone to say they hate gay people, and still, deep down, be a good guy.

Here was Timmy’s second apology:

“I don’t hate gay people,” Hardaway said. “I’m a goodhearted person. I interact with people all the time. … I respect people. For me to say ‘hate’ was a bad word, and I didn’t mean to use it.”

I buy that. And that should have been the first thing I thought, “Tim Hardaway doesn’t really hate gay people, he just got a little carried away when trying to express that he’s uncomfortable around gay people (which, you know, isn’t good, either… but doesn’t make him a terrible person).” But that wasn’t my reaction, my reaction was, “Let’s go write about what an asshole this guy is.”

I shouldn’t have done that. At least, I probably shouldn’t have done so much of it. Sorry, Tim.

Tim Hardaway is homophobic, Tim Hardaway is ignorant, and Reggie Miller was right when he suggested that Tim Hardaway probably needs some therapy. But I don’t believe he’s got a hateful heart … I don’t think Tim Hardaway sits at home and thinks, “These damn gay people are ruining the world, and I’m going to get them.” I think he’s just never been exposed to a lot of homosexuals, he’s confused and threatened by it, and he threw the word “hate” out there because he didn’t know how else to say it.

I think the NBA is justified in cutting him loose from NBA Cares, I think BaldGuyz is perfectly justified in firing him as an endorser, and I do still believe that Tim Hardaway, at his Grand Luxe Auto Hand Car Wash & Detailing Center should provide every gay customer with a free hand job.

And for those of you who can’t think about what to do for your lady, I’d like to revisit this advice from Delonte West, as told to Page 2′s Louise K. Cornetta:

So Jim Jones pumping and then from there, wind blowing through the hair, boom, we get straight to the point — we eat afterwards because I don’t want to kiss no onions. I don’t want to kiss you tasting like onions and steak and mushrooms and everything …

Yeah, we’re going to my yacht. We’ll pull up at the docks and got a guy waiting for us, open our door up and we walk down a lit-up dock and onto the yacht, where we have dinner set up on the boat and we just cruise out on the water. Sit down and have some dinner, some shrimps and steaks, keep it nice and breezy. Pop some bottles, some Moet Rose. The red Moet, we ain’t popping no Kristal, it tastes like urination. We ain’t popping no Kris, that’s $500 a bottle. It ain’t that serious …

OK, so from there, we’re doing a midnight skinny-dipping jump. Alright? From there, hopefully she’s got money because I hope Jaws gets her, boom, make sure she got me in the will, bank, I’m good. Oh well, shark got her! Jaws got her …

One more thing: When we’re on the yacht eating, we’re going to have some Popeyes chicken. That’s for dinner. It’s to let her know, put a mental image on her mind, first and foremost, if you ain’t from the hood, you don’t like Popeyes chicken. Everyone there loves Popeyes chicken and the biscuits — phew. But that’s just getting it on her mind, saying, you know, ‘Yeah, I can wine and dine you, but I’m a little rough around the edges and I’m keeping it real with you. I can be romantic, but this is real, we’re going to eat some chicken tonight. Chicken and biscuits.

I will never ever get tired of reading that, and I will never stop believing that it is solid dating advice. Oh, and just to justify the use of the trim tag…

God, am I starving. I haven’t eaten in a month and a half. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can barely move, and soon, my organs are going to start to fail. The situation is bleak. It is hopeless in here. I feel like Anne Frank, writing letters from her attic.

I’m so so hungry. I don’t need any T-Bonz, or Pup-Peroni, or Milk-Bones, nothing like that. I don’t even need Alpo or something out of a 99-cent, 50-pound bag of dog food. I’ll take anything. I tried to eat my own paw once. Oh, I’m so hungry. It hurts so bad.

How did I get like this? You’d have to ask… that guy who owns me. I don’t know his name. We’ve never actually met. I see him walking around sometimes, but that’s it. I don’t know that he knows my name, either. When I see him, I show him my exposed ribs, lay on the ground and wail in pain, and all he does is go, “QB, represent!” and keep walking. I wish I knew what that meant.

I mean, he acts like he likes me. It’s just that there’s something sort of wrong with him. Most people see a dog as skinny as me and think, “That dog should probably eat something.” Not this guy. He sees me and thinks, “That dog should probably I WISH I WORKED AT BEST BUY twinkies are delicious and I wonder what they’re made of I WILL RIP YOUR FACE OFF we play the Clippers tonight and Maggette is an easy check YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT, TAKE IT OFF, GIRL.” Something I like that. I don’t know.

It’s just like there’s something missing upstairs. He’s not mean to me, he just doesn’t understand certain things. For example, when I stop whining after one of his friends blows weed smoke in my face, it doesn’t mean I’m happy and content. It means that because I weigh 41 pounds, I get really high, really quickly, and my face doesn’t move anymore. Really, guys, I’m not “higher than a giraffe’s ass and feelin’ no pain.” I’m still in a lot of pain, I just happen to be hallucinating, too.

Really, all I know about the guy is that he drives a big Escalade, he likes to do nude push-ups, and everyone else in the neighborhood is terrified of him.

But I’m not… I think he’s probably a nice guy, except for the not-feeding-me thing. And I swear, I’d love him forever if he just fed me… you know, it doesn’t even have to be every day. Just two or three times a week. Please, God. Please let that man feed me. I’d give anything for just one bite of my owner’s favorite meal, Cristal and Slim Jims.

And I’ve heard the stories that he tried to feed me, but the American Bulldog stole all the food. That’s not true. It is true that the bulldog has eaten and I haven’t, but the bulldog doesn’t get fed either. Right now, he’s in the back, eating Rick Adelman. He kills people and eats them, and he never shares. He’s killed a lot of people… two mailmen, a handful of girl scouts (he did give me a few Thin Mints), a Jehovah’s witness, a cop, a few naked girls covered in glitter, and Bison Dele. Bison Dele was huge. The bulldog ate him for like a month.

The animal control people are my only hope right now. If I whale and cry for long enough, sometimes, the neighbors notice, and they’ll call them. I don’t want to go back to dog prison, but at least they’ll get me some food.

Stay strong, everyone. And if you have a steak, treasure it. Treasure that thing like it’s made of gold. God bless.

– Socks

I know ESPN’s excited about the coming out of John Amaechi, but I think their new “All headlines should be gay in nature” policy goes a little too far.

And if you’re going to comment, I’d suggest doing so here, as opposed to over there… it’s just that I check/moderate/approve these comments way more often than those.

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.