Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Isn't It Bromantic?

See that dude sticking up above the gaggle of overdressed people there? Cast your eyes above the headwear... little higher... yes, the one holding the chocolate-colored ovoid aloft in a display of jaunty, non-sexual male collective bonding. I assume it's non-sexual, although I will admit I cannot account for everyone's hands.

Anyway, the guy up there? That's LaDainian Tomlinson. He's a football player. And a man. And I am in love with him.

Again, this is a non-sexual kind of love that can only be shared between two men who have never met, one of whom is visibly and publicly successful beyond all measure and the other of whom has a blog. At least I assume it's non-sexual, although I will admit that I know that you cannot account for both of my hands.

For those of you who don't watch football, I will only say that Mr. Tomlinson is now at the pinnacle of his game, widely regarded as the best now playing and--more and more of late--part of the conversation when considering the best who ever played.

But he is more than that. So very much more.

He is a rarity among elite professional athletes in this country in that he has no children out of wedlock, never refers to himself in the third-person and has never--not once!--punched a woman in the face for any reason.

When asked about himself, he talks about his teammates. When eating in public, he has never been photographed talking with his mouth full. Should mosquitoes harass him, he will politely ask them to defer and they will kindly oblige. He visits hospitals and disaster victims, among whom he will be so moved that he cries tears of pure liquid gold, which he immediately collects and hands over in vials his assistant carries with him at all times.

Yes, he is quite well compensated for his services, but what few people know is that he donates 98% of his earnings to an orphanage in his hometown of Waco, TX. The orphange does quite well, as a result. It is the only orphanage on record with a helicopter landing pad. And a helicopter. Made of diamonds and ermine. Fueled by a hybrid engine that runs on gasoline and burnt $100 bills. Children regularly petition the State Court in Texas to be emancipated from their parents so they might live there in orphanic splendor.

And if that weren't enough, without the helmet and the armor and the sun-tinted personal humility visor he wears when playing, he looks like this:

That's him on the left. Devastating. And ladies, you can see, he obviously has a taste for older, non-supermodel-y women.

Women clearly love him. Men should hate him, but we can't. Unless we're Bronco or Raider fans, in which case you know your suffering is deserved and you should shut up.

For the rest of us: how do you hate an ideal of perfection? Do we hate the Sistine Chapel ceiling for being too well painted? Do we hate America for being too libtery-ish and freedom-tastic? Do we hate the earth itself for being too life-sustaining?

We don't. We can't.

The only thing that might be suspect? We don't know how he feels about puppies. Poor innocent puppies. You know, the type who might be brutally murdered by me should his team fail to make the AFC Championship Game.

Best record in the AFC as of right now, assuring them home-field advantage throughout the playoffs and a first-round bye. I'd say that's a strong argument in the pro-puppy camp. But I've fallen for that before. Dad seemed all into the goldfish until the day he got drunk with his friend Skunk and swallowed poor Goldie on a bet. If I learned anything from that it was people are nicknamed things like "Skunk" for a reason. And also, when it comes to people, it's important to wait and see. Just wait and see.

And listen.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.0



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