Oh Tom, look! It’s a boy! We had a boy! Or, to be more accurate, I had a boy. You didn’t do jack shit. He’s mine. All mine. In fact, I just came up with his name. I think you’re gonna like it. It’s John Edward Thomas Moynahan.

That’s right. John Moynahan, you heartless bastard. No Brady for you. Oh, were you hoping to continue your name on through future generations? Well then, you better start riding Gisele bareback, if you aren’t already, you negligent prick. You don’t even get the middle name to yourself! Ha! I’m making you share it. In fact, I put Edward first in the middle name pecking order, just to piss you off.

No man betrays the Bridge and gets away with it.

In fact, I’m gonna make sure he grows up to be nothing like you. He’ll be generous, and responsible. And you know what else he’ll be? Gay. That’s right. I’m gonna raise him to be super gay. Positively flaming. Know why he’s named John? It’s after Johnny Weir. I’m gonna dress him in girly clothes, make him watch hours of Bette Midler movies, and send him to performing arts school. He’ll be hitting London discotheques by age 11. Shit, he’ll be gayer than Hugh Jackman. And there ain’t shit you can do it about, you lecherous fiend.

Oh, did you want him to play football? Sorry. No football in the Moynahan household. No, I think he’ll be playing lacrosse. Lots and lots of lacrosse. He won’t care about touchdowns and fly patterns, because he’ll be too busy prancing around a field twirling a basket on a stick. Suck on that.

It could have been different. I’m no slouch in the looks department, my man. But noooooo, you had to have it all. You had to go trotting around the globe with that little fucking Brazilian strumpet you call a girlfriend. Think you can just knock me up, avoid the altar, and then keep living the high life, do you? “Oh, let’s do it without condoms, Bridge! You won’t get pregnant if we do it standing up!” Liar. Time to pay the piper.

So say hello to John Edward Thomas MOYNAHAN. Hope you like seeing him in pink onesies, you fucker.

While we know quite a bit about Tom Brady and Bridget Moynahan, details about the kid are still sparse. We know it’s a boy and…well, that’s about it. Tom Brady, we must imagine, is surely overwhelmed with the realization that his life is now over. Yeah, being a dad is great and whatever (that’s what I read, anyway), but as he watches a promising career of pure bachelorhood evaporate before his eyes, his latest acquisition now toils in this mortal neo-natal world of ours, nameless.

Sadly, our newly-papoosed prodigal passer might be mere hours from being slapped with some ridiculous Hollywood-inspired child’s name like “Coco” or “Apple.” Or worse, he could spend his life shouldering even something more uninspired, like “4real” or “@.” Hey, @, how are you today? What’s that, @? Could you repeat that, @? What’s your email address, again?

We cannot let this happen. This is, after all, A Baby Of Destiny. We must rise to this occasion as voices of reason, and hope that, for all our collective efforts, one name stands above all. For this draft, you are naming this baby. You know the rules. I will go first.

Anakin Bootylicious Brady.

Pick a name. Wait ten picks. Pick another name. If you have time, mock and ridicule the ones that fuck this up. Time is a factor here. The fate of the future lies in your hands.

Go.

WHHHAAAHH! WHHHAAAAAAAA!!!!! Whaaaaaa! Whaaaaaaaaa!

WHOA HOLY SHIT! Where the fuck am I? Last thing I remember, I was sliding down the inside of my mom and now some asshole in a mask and green pajamas is trying to nostril-fuck me! Get that fucking thing out of my nose! If you’re so eager to help, you can grab a rag there and wipe some of this pussy shrapnel off my face! And turn some of these fucking lights down! You’re not delivering a king-sized order of onion rings, faggots!

Seriously, where the fuck am I? WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? What is this place? This kinda looks like a small cafeteria to me, but where are all the stacks of trays? Wait a sec, am I in NFL Europe? That would explain why it’s so cold, out here in Nonpussyville. I don’t think I can survive outside of the snatch for, oh, more than a couple of hours. Guys, for real, I can feel my lips starting to chap. You mind if I run back into my mom for a second? I have some gloves in there. I’ll be right back, seriously. I swear.

And not that I’m complaining about this, but do I have two dicks? I have this long ropecock that leads back into my mom, and then another friend down there. Is that crazy? I mean, I have two of everything else, right? When I get older, I’ll have two Christmases, too. Wicked. Yeah, that other one a little farther down is nice, too. We’ll call that my backup dick.

Yeah, go ahead, you green freaks, clamp that dick down and measure it. Just tell me how long it is in inches, and then tell me what an inch is. You could just draw an inch for me on that legal pad on that desk over there. I’m a visual learner, see.

Helloooo? Will somebody just tell me where I am? Hey, are those scissors? Be careful with those, you might…hey! HEY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING! THAT’S MY ROPECOCK! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME I JUST GOT AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

…Damn you sons of bitches, you just slashed my ropecock. I hate all of you fucking people. I just know I’m gonna hate it in this…this cafeteria. At least I have two great parents that love each other. And a spare pecker. Fuck this place, I’m taking a nap…

Oh, hey, dipshits. One more thing…

Do I have a name?