I think dreams provide a unique insight into our subconscious emotions and how the events in our life influence them.
Dreams are useless hallucinations that present little importance to anyone, with the exception of those who monetize them through interpretation. So in the honor of Herm's Perm raching the $10 mark, I'd like to share one of my dreams with you, so we can speculate on how
retardedly insane I am. And maybe make some moolah in the process (mo' hits, mo money baby!).
We begin with the Patriots 2009 season-opener. Brady breaks the huddle and calls signals from the shotgun formation with Moss wide left. He takes the snap, drops back to his own 15-yard line and bombs one to Ocho Uno, who hauls it in at the opponent's 15. A 70-yard flight that nestles perfectly into Moss' breadbasket before he's brought down by the safety.
Instead of calmly and confidently jogging down the field, or enacting a celebratory fist-pump, Brady just stands there. He looks over at Belichick and the Pats' sideline. I see the emotion welling in his face as he removes his helmet (which doesn't elicit a penalty flag, for some reason). And he begins to bawl like a baby. Tears of joy erupt from his eyesockets like Old Faithful. As I watch this, I'm inexplicably overwhelmed by empathy, while feeling slightly disturbed at the same time.
After brief reflection, this could mean one of many things.
1. Brady shares my relief that it's finally football season.
I haven't restrained myself in bemoaning the serious lack of sports in my life during the past three months. I've blogged about it, I've thought about it and I've forced it upon every willing and unwilling person who shares my love for sports (sans baseball and curling). The NFL offseason has enough non-game related story lines for a football spinoff of Law and Order. Baseball is fucking gay. I just learned who Messi was this past summer. I wouldn't be shocked if I collapse in a fit of joy when the Pats kick off in less than three weeks. Like this, but with less decapitation-induced madness:
2. Stephon Marbury's hysterical sadness is contagious.
Brady's irrational breakdown in my dream may be a prophecy for an epidemic of professional athlete insanity with intensely tearful symptoms. Can you imagine in LeBron's first regular season game with Sidekick Shaq, as the two hook up for an alley-oop, followed by a tearful embrace that would make Dr. Phil proud? If the Yankees end their World Series drought this year, will A-Rod, Jeter, Sabathia and Teixeira have to dry their eyes with hundred dollar bills at the press conference? If all this happens, will the Oxygen network be forced to buy the television contracts for all major professional sports? Jesus Ovary Overloading Christ.
3. Tom Brady's public image will be tarnished by a personal or legal event
Remember how I said he threw the ball 70 yards on a dime? Nobody's done that since Mike Vick. Brady's only run-in with the law since his emergence as a public figure occurred when some hobo stole his planters. Has anyone heard from this man since? Nope. Why? Because his rotting corpse is fertilizing the foliage that is growing out of those same planters. Tom Brady doesn't stand for that shit. He's smart enough to know nobody cares enough about homeless people to investigate their mysterious disappearances. It's much easier for people to think optimistically, and hope they've become a blight to some other town. From a personal standpoint, I hope this interpretation is way off base. Sixteen consecutive regular season games without Brady is enough for one lifetime.