An Open Letter From Tom Brady to Rexxxtasy

Mr. Grossman:

Notice how I didn’t call you Rexxxtasy or something pornographic like that? You know why? Class. I’ve got it, and you, my friend, do not. I drink port, you drink alcohol that came from the ports of San Juan. My girlfriends have included starlets and supermodels, whereas yours have included Brandi from Pensacola and Heather from Skokie. Way to go. I attended the University of Michigan, a university whose business school was ranked best in the nation by the Wall Street Journal (that’s a prestigious newspaper, by the way), whereas you attended the University of Florida, a school of champions, albeit not while you were there, but frankly a school where the average SAT rivals your quarterback rating against the Packers.

Do not continue to offend me, Mr. Grossman. While having sex with Gisele, I am oftentimes sickened by your actions. You are not “The Sex Cannon.” I am. I walk into bars and women immediately wet their pants. Think about that, Mr. Grossman. You walk into bars to get drunk; I don’t walk into bars so much as I walk directly into wet panties. It’s like the doorway is full of them, and I walk directly into them. Picture that, Mr. Grossman. I do sincerely apologize for the vulgarity of that statement, but I felt it necessary to prove my point. Often, when I am involved with a beautiful woman, such as the starlets and supermodels I share with people such as Leo DiCaprio and Derek Jeter, I like to wear my three Super Bowl rings, and admire them as any true champion would. Then I continue to last for hours on end. Again, I remind you, these are the most beautiful women in the world, not sorority girls from the Chi Omega house in Gainesville.

A final point, my dear friend. Perhaps, if you weren’t so busy attempting to be the next great western gunslinger (I refuse to even use any other word you use to describe yourself ending in “slinger”) you would realize that in fact, women most prefer the man with the rings who isn’t afraid to show off his sensitive side and dump the ball off. At that point, maybe, just maybe, my girlfriend Gisele could get you one of her friend’s phone numbers. Until then, however, Mr. Grossman, enjoy the pleasures of the women of Wrigleyville. You may think you’re special for merely MAKING ONE Super Bowl, but my good friend Peyton will likely wipe the floor with you. I have to cut this letter short; my Merrill Lynch stock just bought me my fifth Rolls Royce and I have to go pick it up.

Yours in Football,
Thomas Brady