Do you see now, people? Have you finally fucking figured it out?

I do not like football. I don’t know how much clearer I can make that point. This sport blows. Everyone’s running around and hitting each other… yikes. All I wanted when I was a kid was to hang out with my mom in the kitchen and make some zucchini bread. But nooooo, everyone’s all like, “You’re a Manning. You should play football!”

Fuck that. You should hear my dad in interviews. “We never pushed football on the boys…” Yeah right, old man. I just fell into this shit naturally. It had nothing to do with the family football games we played every afternoon for SEVENTEEN FUCKING YEARS, Dad. Or the film study sessions after dinner. No, that was for fun. Ass.

And Peyton! Guhhhhh, what a fucking dickwad. “Hey, Dad! I’ve memorized the playbook!” “Hey Dad, want to go look at your old game films?” “Hey Dad, I audibled to a slant-and-go pattern!” Fucking brownnoser. Hey Peyton, I just threw two picks and blew a game to Tennessee because I’m not as good as you! Isn’t that exciting? Fuckface.

But those two aren’t even the worst offenders in my family. No, I always get Cripple Boy pulling me aside and spouting off some shit like, “Cherish these games, Eli. You’re lucky to be playing in them.” Oh, yeah? I got crazed loons like Albert Haynesworth trying to chase me down and stomp on my fucking nuts. Does that sound like fun to you, Cooper? You get to sell real estate and ride Jet Skis on weekends. Meanwhile, I got Coach Stalin chewing me out and the New York tabloids writing punny headlines telling everyone what a dipshit I am. Oh yeah, bro. I’ll cherish these moments. They’re fucking sterling.

God dammit, do I look like I enjoy playing this game? Have you ever seen me smile? Have you even ever seen my expression change? No. I always look like someone just asked me to solve a trigonometry formula. I only play this game because everyone expected me to. I don’t like hanging out in the locker room. I don’t like slapping asses after a win. I don’t like any of that shit.

Give me squash. There’s a sport. You got two guys in a box swatting at a dead superball. Now THAT I can get on board with. No coaches. No annoying family members telling you about how “great the game is”. None of that crap. Just you, some other sweaty guy, and lots of grunting. Bliss.

I got a bigass signing bonus, you know. I could play that shit all day. All I have to do is prove to everyone that I’m not good enough to play this bullshit football. Critics say I’m inaccurate. Wanna bet? I’m the most accurate fucking passer in the world, people. Those aren’t interceptions I’m throwing. They are FUCKING CRIES FOR HELP.

Don’t you get it? I don’t want to do this anymore. Let some other moron run sit back in the pocket, waiting to get jacked. If only I could just quit, like that dipshit Tiki. He says he’s quitting and the entire media slobs his knob for going out “before he does permanent damage to his body”. Whore. If I quit tomorrow, everyone would call me a gutless pussy. What a bunch of bullshit. Eat shit, Tiki. Eat my shit.

I’m gonna get out of this game. And if it means throwing another 20 dead-on picks and costing the Giants the playoffs, then fuck it. I’m doing it. You can’t stop me. Nothing will keep Eli from that squash court.