If there's one thing we should take away from Super Bowl 50, it's that Peyton Manning is fucking old. Like so old that his balls probably get rug burn when he bucks his Bronco at home.
I'm kidding, fools. The man isn't even 40. But media smothered and covered us in this "news hook," for what seemed like six years, leading up to the Super Bowl. As I hop in the Broncos pants this week, here are my takeaways from Sunday's raging gangbang.
Football. Football game.
Manning, you're not old. But you are a Tennessee Volunteer, so that's your first problem. Problem No. 2: You drink Budweiser.
As a Letter(wo)man in Boozing for Varsity Sport, I understand the perks of potentially having a lifetime supply of free beer, if that were the revered quarterback's goal. But, Bud tastes like Bill Cosby's yeast infection and Manning is missing out on Colorado's glorious crafts.
Also, you're kind of old.
T.J. Ward said before Sunday's game that the Panthers just want to be "rappers and backup dancers" while the Broncos "want to play football."
"We let our pads talk. We talk with our helmets and our shoulder pads....They want to be famous. We want to be champions."
Let's make those Panthers' dancing dreams come true. I need an old priest and a Wayans on the horn. (A young priest and any Wayans will suffice.) We shall resurrect the Fly Girls from "In Living Color." (Shhh, millennials.) We'll call them Pretty Kitties in Fancy Pants and they'll all be twinsies in Cam Newton's zebra leggings.
(Sidebar: T.J., I got a tattoo next to you at Denver's Monkey Fist in July. You probably remember. I was that hot ass tall bitch with monster hair. I just wanted to thank you for walking around shirtless while I was getting poked.)
Rub-a-dab-dab, Wade busts a move in the club. The Broncos defensive coordinator Wade Phillips (@sonofbum)tweeted a special message to the Panthers on Monday: "A little Dab with (sic) do you but too much Dab will undo you!" (Wade's excitement prematurely autocorrected.)
(This prompted head coach Gary Kubiak to say, "he gets carried away with that Twitter sometimes." And probably the YouTubes and the SnapChats and the smartphone applications and such.)
Then Phillips, 68, tore up the dance floor at a club in San Fran with his team Sunday night, TMZ told me, and we can bet there was a dab or three. Look, the man can do zero wrong. His defense could knock the rock right out of Trump's head. (At the very least it can smash the ego on Newton.)
Crybaby Cam. For getting up and walking out of the post-game press conference after spitting out one-word answers and hiding under a hoodie, I hereby award Newton a box of tampons.
Von Holy Shit Miller.
We all need to get smothered and covered in Von Miller.