Tom, Thumb

by thoughtsonthedead


“Don’t call me that.”

Congratulations, man.

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

You led your team to another Super Bowl win. That’s two. Good job.

“Yeah, well, ‘led the team’ might be an overstatement.”

You were one of the first guys out of the tunnel for the introductions.

“Okay, yeah. In that sense, sure.”

Papa John slip you the tongue?

“Grabbed my garlic knots.”

Nice. How you feel?

“Not bad, actually.”

Wow, that’s great.

“But also, not good. I don’t feel anything, to be honest. Whole body’s numb. Past three years or so is just muscle memory.”

Yeah, that old “laser-rocket arm” is a thing of the past.

“No, no: still a rocket. Just no stabilizer fins. The sucker’s gonna blast off, but where it’s gonna land is anyone’s guess.”

Well, it doesn’t really matter. You got your second ring.

“You see Eli’s face?”

Yeah. You’re looking forward to Thanksgiving this year, aren’t you?

“Right now, I’m just looking forward to a handful of pills and a couch. Maybe a carpeted floor.”

Makes sense. One more question.

“If you ask if I’m retiring, I’m gonna drink a Budweiser, eat a Snickers, shut off my DirecTV, and run over you in my Buick.”

You don’t actually drive a Buick.

“Shit, I ain’t running you over in the Mercedes.”