A Letter To Peyton's Little Brother

Dear Eli,

I wanted to write you to just to give you a little pick-me-up. You may need it as you prepare to battle the Evil Empire next Sunday. I am happy that you were not photographed around New York City with and with out a removable cast entering and exiting a model's apartment. Though I have to say that your squeeze is pretty hot as well. Is she still your squeeze after you made her watch the game last weekend at Green Bay outside in -3 degree weather because you feared the "Tony Romo-Jessica Simpson jinx." If I were her I would have dumped you the moment the game started. Then sued you for sexual harassment or something. Don't you understand that you can not leave your significant other in cold like that in enemy territory? Ever. What else do you make her do? Drink battery acid? Watch your father's old game films? Make her watch outtakes from your brother's commercials in a continuous loop until she vomits? Sorry, this was supposed to be a motivational letter. I'll get back on track even though it is hard for me to do after taking two or three extra doses of Ritalin (with Coors Light chaser).
Even though you look like you are about ten years old and should be the manager for a junior high football team you have made a remarkable turn around in the last month. I have never seen such an incredible and improbable turn around in fortunes in such a short period of time. It's like a reverse Mike Tyson after he got knocked out by Buster Douglas. You went from an inconsistent quarterback who was being questioned about everything from your leadership skills to your hair cut to a consistent heady sophisticated quarterback that led his team to three straight road victories in the playoffs (and at least a touchdown underdog in the last two games). You have thrown no interceptions in the play-offs. You have thrown four touchdown passes and your passer rating is over 100 in the playoffs. Your opponent next week is the NFL's version of Zoolander in Tom Brady. Right now he is busy impregnating half of Kansas and perfecting his smile. His coach is drinking Thorazine and coming up with a game plan to completely kill you and your team so thoroughly that you will not exist anymore. He is planning to erase you from all of history. Your parents will not remember you and your brother will not have an Oreo licking opponent anymore if Coach Hoodie has his way. I am pleading with you to not let that happen. I do not care what you and your team do in the face of such sure force and power. You can cheat if you want. I'll give you a pass. Steal their signals. Have someone club Tom Brady's throwing arm with a baseball bat. Kidnap his girl-friend and tape her in bed with Junior Seau. I know that your coach almost died last weekend from frostbite. His head almost exploded or cracked open. He looked like a drunk on a four week bender. By the way, didn't Jimmy Johnson on Sunday look like William Shatner as the night wore on? Pretty soon I was expecting that he would start doing a priceline.com commercial or asked to be beamed up. Again, your coach looks like Uncle Pete after seven margaritas. Don't let that deter you. The goal is to beat the Patriots. The goal is to destroy the dream of the perfect season. The goal is to allow the '72 Dolphins to really enjoy their champagne. It's the goal to make Mercury Morris happy even though I am not sure anything else can make him happier as it seems he still does a lot of cocaine. The goal is to make history. Two brothers winning successive Super Bowls? A major upset? That is the goal. I know that you can do it. I know that you have the ability. I know you have the pedigree. Now, it takes a perfect game from you and your teammates. Your team is ten times better now on the field with you as their leader. Tiki is gone and Shockey is learning to braid his hair. So it is you now. You obviously lead in a quiet manner through example. OK, its time to put it all together one last time. It's you versus Zoolander. It's Uncle Pete against the Darth Hoodie. You don't want to be forgotten. Do you? Who were the losers in the last four Super Bowls. I don't remember who lost those games mainly because of all the margaritas I had last night, but that's beside the point. Just remember: you can win. You can make history. You can be immortal. Take it...or you'll be back home watching the Teletubbies.

Signed,
Fox4NX