I’m sorry Kennedy Urlacher, for painting your toenails blue and forcing you to wear pink Cinderella diapers. As you can see from daddy’s Old Spice commercial, he went through a bit of an awkward phase himself, one that ultimately shaped him for the better. Not having suffered the slings and arrows of the brutal mocking of my peers, I wouldn’t be the Paris-banging fading star for a middling team that I am today. There’s something to be said for adversity is all, and I thought you had it too easy up to this point. Beats horse collaring you on the kitchen floor, I think.

I’m sorry I didn’t pick a better shade of blue. Upon further reflection, I should have picked something closer to the Bears color. Not my fault exactly. You know how Glidden has those team paints? Well Glidden doesn’t make toenail polish, and for that I’m sorry. Blue is still a boy’s color, though, so at least it’s got that gender-affirming aspect to it. And of course it doesn’t make him gay. Gay is something you learn during D&D sessions at Billy McMullan’s house when you’re in the 3rd grade.

I know Cinderella on the diapers was a particularly, maybe even excessively, humiliating touch, and, again, sorry. I look at the array of Disney princesses and, almost without exception, I get a raging fucking hard-on. Pocahontas? I’d bury my face a yard-deep in that ass. Mulan? Jasmine? Ariel? Belle? Jesus, I’d give it all back to dogpile them once in a kiddie pool full of caramel. But Cinderella? Even all decked out in the dress and shit, she’s a pretty plain-looking broad. The last thing I want is to look at my son’s diapers and get in an erection. No reason to scar the both of us, kiddo.

Anyway, I’m sorry for the diapers. And sorry for not changing them. I didn’t know you had to do that.

I’m sorry, Peyton Manning, about your sudden collapse in the fourth quarter of your Monday night game. It was as if you, Peyton Manning, were sabotaged by 2005 Peyton Manning, who then opened a wormhole and instantaneously replaced you with himself. Where were you when 2005 Peyton was in the game? Did you get something to eat? I don’t know much about time travel, but I bet it would make me hungry.

I feel bad for you, Peyton Manning, because the other teams in your division are actually good now. It’s bad enough that you’re living with the burden of being a decent human being off the field, Peyton Manning, but now you have to carry your team without a running game or defense. It’s like, you were so busy acting like a football player that could carry his team…and now you actually have to BE one. It’s like that one Kevin Kline movie where he becomes president and then bangs the chick from Ghostbusters. I remember the name of his character, but not the name of that movie, for some reason.

You have so many endorsements and reputable friends, Peyton Manning, and I only have one of each. But I get to do lots of other cool stuff. I can drop in pass coverage in games and then drop my nuts on some random woman’s chin afterwards. If you only knew the anonymity that came with being a 6-foot-4-inch bald guy. You know what those great clutch players have that you don’t? Real simple–STDs. I don’t know what tainted pussy does for the competitor in me, I don’t ever question science. Or answer questions about science.

So…yeah…if you ever want to tag-team some human resources girls sometime…I’m on the cell.

I was sorry, Serena Williams, to learn this morning that you were dumped by your boyfriend. Brad Maynard was reading Deadspin to me this morning, and I couldn’t feel worse for you. I know what it’s like to be with someone that you open up your pants heart to, only to have it crushed and mangled, as if it was being dragged over a cobblestone road through a town square. I feel bad.

And I’m sorry to say, Serena Williams, that you kinda brought some of this shit on yourself, dating a guy named “Jackie” that wasn’t actually Jackie Chan. Goodness Gracious, that dude is bad-ass. But this dude you were dating was an actor after all, and I’m sure that the Stanislavsky Method training of his helped him embellish some of the things that you already were willing to hear. It’s like Rexy always tells us: A girl can fake an orgasm, but only a guy can fake an entire relationship. Word, sistah.

So, you’re not gonna believe this, Serena Williams, but we didn’t make the playoffs this year, and I’ve got some free time coming up next month. Would you be interested in going to Honolulu with me in February? Yeah, I know I didn’t make the Pro Bowl, but Roy Williams said that he wasn’t voted in either, and now he’s going. I’m hoping that happens to me. Jeez, those cornerbacks get so lucky sometimes. But, we’d be there for the week. We can go to a luau and help Coach Jones clean out his office. Or we can help you come up with a better name for that apparel line that you don’t do any work on. ANERES? Shit, girl. I knew that was Serena spelled backwards as soon as I saw it.

You’re on your own getting back to the mainland, though. That’s just how I roll.

I’m sorry, Tom Dempsey, that the 36th anniversary of your historic achievement yesterday received little to no mention in the intricate, obese web that is sports news. For it was you, good sir, that set the longest field goal in NFL history with a 63-yard money shot, o so long ago.

I’m also sorry, Tom Dempsey, that you booted yourself into the record books with only half of a kicking foot and no right hand. That’s pretty cool, at least if you’re cool with not being able to do the Pee Wee Herman dance. And limited options for masturbating. And forget about email. It reminds me of that one time I tried to eat a sandwich while I was wiping my ass on the shitter. Your whole life must have been like that. And even now, too; sorry, I forgot you were still alive.

And you probably took a lot of grief from people that couldn’t handle the fact that you were different. I mean, look at Lance Armstrong now, he’s missing parts and now he’s dating half of that girl that was on Full House. I hope that you at least got to nail one of those twins on The Patty Duke Show.

I’m sorry that you are now forced to share this record with Jason Elam, a small, unpleasant person who has nothing better to do than hang out with Scrabble players and fantasize about Al-Qaeda. Never mind the fact that his kick came about on a lark at the end of the first half, through the thinnest of air on top of a mountain, while your drive for glory was a game-winner, below sea level, in the sweltering airborne filthiness that is southern Louisiana. Plus you did it against that guy on Webster.

I’m sorry, Tom Dempsey, that you took grief from people that said you did it with a loaded shoe, putting a stain on everything you accomplished. Just the attitudes of the day, I guess. I mean, people would never say that kind of thing about Lance Armstrong. If you did that today, you’d have your own color and people would be running 5Ks in your honor. Plus, you’d probably get to meet Hulk Hogan, like those kids that get cancer always do. I wish I had cancer.

I guess that’s it. Tell Jim Abbott I said hi. I think he’s pretty neat.

I am sorry that you wrecked your $350,000 car the other day, Lance. I was hanging in the dorms last night smoking toenails with Adewale and he told me about your car. Well, specifically, he told me about how you wrapped it around some light fixture in the street. A good lighting scheme can make all the difference, so I can see your intention there. Are you alright? I am surprised you could even fit in such a small car. I understand that Italian men are just scale replicas of normal-sized people, and that their cars are shrunken down accordingly.

Maybe that was your plan all along, Lance Briggs. You were just trying to stretch the car out so both of us could fit in there at the same time. You always were a thoughtful fellow, The cannonball home from Lake Forest would have been sweet, just like Miami Vice. I could have been Don Johnson to your Phillip Michael Estrada, but I guess we can forget about that for now.

This just hasn’t been your year, Lance Briggs. I mean, you got stuck with the franchise tag over the winter and all that. Now you’re only gonna make seven million dollars this year, not that either of us could count that high, even if we had like, 94 days or something. It’s a good thing we have direct deposit, it’s just one less thing. Hey, what did you do with that franchise tag? I never see you wear it…

But now you have no car, Lance Briggs, and that sucks. This one time in college I needed a new water pump in my Neon and I had to drop it off overnight, so I know exactly what you’re going through. When your game check comes in a couple weeks, we can go get you another car, and maybe invest some money into some better tires. I know this homeless guy over in Gary, Indiana, so we can register it in his name if you don’t want to deal with the cops next time you plow into an embankment. Think about it, the offer is on the table.

So, do you need a ride to CVS or something?

I am sorry that you went to jail, mainly because now someone else will have a chance to rape you, although that may be a misnomer since you really don’t know the meaning of the word “no.” I bet the food in jail is bad, Paris Hilton, but I hear their gym is pretty sweet.

I was thinking the other day about all the fun times we used to have; I was taking a shit and then realized that I didn’t have any toilet paper. So I just sat on the bowl for, I think it was like an hour, and then my ass started to get numb, so I just lathered up my hand with two squirts of Dial and then scrubbed out my crack. But I had no way to rinse out my wares, so I just wiped out the suds with one of my towels. When I finally hopped off and flushed, I saw there was a brand new roll resting on the top of the toilet behind me. I’m never eating ziti after 8 o’clock again.

But anyway, Paris Hilton, I remember when we used to hit the town. You had these stupid little pointy shoes and you asked me what I thought of them. I told you I would rather drive the tips of those shoes through my eye sockets than be forced to bear witness to them for even another second. Then you got really pouty and quiet. And then when I asked what was wrong, you said, “Nothing.” But I think if nothing was really wrong, you would have let me use the anal beads that night.

Remember, Paris Hilton, when we went out with the team to the Chicago Playboy Mansion and Tank wanted to lay money on how many handguns he could cram up your pussy? I really thought he was going to be more systematic with his insertion methods there. Plus I thought that he would have made sure that none of those guns were loaded, or at least had the safeties on. And I have no idea why I took the under, either. That whole thing was really my bad.

I bet jail is a lot like having a sleepover, Paris Hilton, except none of your friends show up and the guards search your asshole for contraband. I will try really hard to make the trip east to California and visit, so we can talk on those special phones, and you can mash your little titties up against the glass, like in that one movie, while I make moaning sounds and jerk off after I throw on a turbin and walk some laps around a pillar.

So, um, I guess I’ll see you later. Tell Martha Stewart I said hey.

When I saw you for the first time I wanted so badly to be with you. I thought you were lovely, slender, not like the other footballs I’ve fallen on top of or taken to the house. I respected you for your correct scale and deep engravings, but I also lusted for your concaved edges and slender base. I wanted to moisten my needle and penetrate your bladder. I wanted to inflate you to your correct weight, until I realized that you were solid silver and could not be penetrated. Or inflated. Even after knowing these things, I still wanted so very much to try.

We talked a while in Miami, Vince Lombardi Trophy, and during our brief chats I had visions of us. Yes, I know how silly it seems now, looking back. I play football and, well, you’re a football on an unusually-shaped pedestal. I still thought we could make it work. I saw us together, me carrying you down the beach in my arms, shielding you from the salty water to protect your finish. Later that night we would get shitfaced off Everclear, and then curl up in bed. I would run my fingers over your laces and whisper Journey lyrics into one of your noses, and as your metallurgy cooled my chest, we would fall asleep. In the morning, I would have awoken early to make you pancakes on the hot plate that I brought over, since I know you have no stove.

But now you are gone, Vince Lombardi Trophy, as if my fleeting moment to acquire you never existed. You are so far away from me now, perhaps being passed around in Indianapolis like a bowl of delicious pretzels. When I got back to Chicago, I thought, “Why don’t I come to visit you in Indianapolis? It’s in the same state, and we could spend time together and laugh and eat spinach dip, and maybe take you back to my kitchen that I painted pink. I hope you like pink.”

But the fates proclaim that we were not meant to be together, Vince Lombardi Trophy. And so here I sit, distraught with grief and shame, with the George Halas trophy, as I wonder what could have been. Sure, it is a trophy, Vince Lombardi Trophy, but it is not you. Its touch pales to your gleam. And while the Halas trophy and I have tenuous conversations on the living room sofa, fights about the toilet seat, and unsatisfying sessions of lovemaking, I’ll be yearning, hungry, for your delightful charm and pristine sheen.

You’re the one I wanted, Vince Lombardi Trophy. And now you are gone, whisked away from me by my failures. I don’t care what the others might say, I know I could have done more to bring us together. It’s my fault, Vince Lombardi Trophy. You are the epitome of elegance and grace, and I am a large, dumb man. The joy your promise brought to me was real, Vince Lombardi Trophy. I will never forget you.

Maybe we can still be friends?