Dear Divine Advice,
I’m writing this the day before the Super Bowl, which I’m obviously going to win. I told the rest of my team not to sweat it; they can just get drunk, or show up late, or not at all and it won’t matter. I can win without them, and as usual, I’ll probably have to. If I sound bitter, it’s because I am.
The fact is I’ve always hated football, and I hate it more and more every day. The years in which I win the Super Bowl are actually the worst because that’s one extra game I have to play in. I only got into this for the money and the chicks, and I already have more cash than I could ever spend, and I’m entirely sick of sex.
The saddest part is, it might be too late for me to pursue my true passion: synchronized ice skating. Sure, I still have the body of a 25-year-old, but I’m American so I can’t skate. Plus, unlike football, there’s tons of cooperation involved in synchro and I’m not really a team player. Is there anything you guys can do to help make my dreams come true?
To Satan: I know you already have my soul, but what if I gave you Gisele’s? She’s not using it anyway.
To Jesus: I don’t know, I guess I could sweep the floor of your castle or whatever.
I’ll sign with whichever one of you makes the best offer.
Sincerely,
Touchdown Tommy
Dear Tom Brady,
Really the biggest obstacle for you as a professional synchro skater is that there are no balls to deflate so you’d have to come up with a whole new way to cheat. You could crowbar the competition in the knee, but that wasn’t enough to stop Nancy Kerrigan and it certainly wouldn’t stop today’s top synchro stars. These people have nerves of steel and also, many of them actually have steel knees. I suggest throwing broken glass on the ice because that will cause them to slip and then cut their faces.
Maybe you’re wondering why I, the benevolent Son of Man would ever suggest such a violent strategy when normally I’m so compassionate and forgiving. The truth is, I have cursed the sport and all of its participants for the same reason I cursed that spiteful fig tree: because it embarrassed me in front of my friends. On the day of my tryout for Team USA, I invited the 12 Apostles, my bitch Mary M, and any other prostitutes I happened upon that morning during my walk to the rink. I had a whole cheering section, and I felt unstoppable. Then, towards the end of my routine, I failed to land a triple axle, and just like that, my dream was over.
After such a humbling experience, you might think I’d be sympathetic to your cause, but unfortunately, that is not the case. As anyone who’s actually read the Bible can tell you, I am a petty, jealous man and I will not be shown up by some middle-aged meathead from San Mateo, California. You’re the best quarterback who has ever lived and that’s not enough for you? Go fuck yourself. If it weren’t for my high blood pressure, I’d turn you into salt and sprinkle you on my popcorn.
—Jesus Christ
Dear Tommy,
With all the stress you’re under, I hesitate to pile on, but I feel you deserve the truth. That thing in bed next to you isn’t really your wife; it’s a robot decoy I built. Sure the sex probably feels the same, but that’s only because she’d been phoning it in since your honeymoon. The real Gisele is already down here with me. I told you I was going to steal her away from you, but I guess I never said when. My bad. Anyway, it hasn’t seemed to make much of a difference in your life.
The first thing I did when I brought Gisele down here was to replace her regular legs with gazelle legs and turn her into a satyr. This ended up paying off in ways we never expected. See, as a supermodel, she had her legs insured with Lloyds of London for $6 billion, which we were able to collect immediately. We plan on using that money to buy whichever team you end up on next and making sure you get sodomized by goats during every practice. Sure, you could avoid all that by simply retiring, but we both know you won’t do that. You’re going to be playing football until your brain is Jell-O that squirts out of your nose when you sneeze.
As for your aspirations of becoming a professional synchronized skater, you can forget it. Even if you had another soul to give me, there’s nothing I could do to help get you on a team. The judges are all immune to my powers of persuasion and the last time I tried to intimidate them, they totally kicked my ass. Trust me, you don’t want to fuck with synchro skaters. To be honest, I’m glad I can’t help you because I have too much respect for the sport. You may be the best at what you do, but the synchros aren’t just athletes, they’re angels. You could never fly with them.
—Satan
Have an uncomfortable question? Need some advice about your deviant behavior? If so, then it’s time to pray. Email your question to ryan@skullislandtimes.com, and it shall be answered in a Divine Advice column by Jesus and Satan.
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