Pope's Memoirs: Deflationary Measures
For me, it was never about glory. I knew that I would never profit from what I did. I would never be the headline or the hero. But that was never the point. I didn't do what I did for myself; I did it because it had to be done. What I am about to reveal may come as a shock to many of you, but it is a secret I have carried for too long and I can no longer bear the weight of it on my own.
Before the NFL AFC Championship game, I surreptitiously deflated a number of footballs to be used in the game in an attempt to destroy professional football.
Judge me how you will, but I know, deep in my heart, that this was a necessary step to be taken in finally saving our collective souls from the evils of the NFL. For years, professional football has been enacting a plan of destruction across the United States and destroying families. Much like the Civil War, family members are often torn between allegiances to teams, bringing violence and chaos to their once peaceful neighborhoods. Bathtubs, once a bastion of innocence and calmness, now overflow with the dangerous waters of hate. Poisons spew forth from the cabinets below kitchen sinks like the vitriol and anger from NFL fans. Large, flatscreen TVs topple over, their once sturdy bases made weak by the malevolent venom spawned in our hearts by the NFL.
And so, like a silent guardian of our great nation, I made a secretive move to end the destructive cycle once and for all. With the balls deflated, I expected that the game would devolve into a comical farce, the ball flopping around wildly on every throw, preferably while making a loud, wet fart noise like a whoopie cushion as it flobbered around the stadium. Then, as Tom Brady wept silently at the 40 yard line, his hopes forever dashed, we would all, as a nation, realize the truth about the NFL and begin to move on, finally bettering ourselves and not accidentally killing all our children with falling televisions and overfilled bathtubs anymore.
"When you do things right, people won't be sure you've done anything at all."
But to my utter disappointment, my brilliant plan backfired and instead brought even more attention to the NFL and the game itself. My balls had not been made flaccid enough to destroy the enemy. They had only helped. And today, I find the NFL stronger than ever. But one day soon, I will have my revenge. Ever since that fateful day when a large TV fell on top of me and I ate everything I could find under the sink in search of painkillers, only to later pass out in the bathtub for several hours, I have been planning. Those events of my 23rd birthday will not go unpunished, and the NFL will pay for what it has done to all of us.