Leave it to Eli Manning to Ruin an Otherwise Perfect Tom Brady Roast

For any fan of the Patriots, of comedy, of wildly offensive jokes, of treating other people like white hot garbage, and of happiness in general, last night was, in a word, special. 

People from all across the country who through various acts of God wound up in New England and played major roles in making this franchise the center of the national conversation, sharing this part of Masshole culture with the rest of the world. And getting charbroiled by some of the best roast comics of all time. It was glorious. 

But for all that positivity and celebration, there was - to borrow a phrase from Jaws, the greatest Masshole movie of all time, throughout the night a cloud appeared on the horizon. A cloud in the shape of Eli Manning:

Ron Burgundy leading the crowd in chants about Eli Manning. His brother (doing a squeaky clean monologue that had no place in the proceedings) chiming to add, "my handicap is 6.4, while Brady's handicap is blowing Super Bowls to my baby brother, Eli Manning." 

And maybe worst of all, the fact Eli Manning wasn't even there. Because you couldn't watch this without realizing if he was, he would've won the night. Even without saying a word, he would've flamed Brady worst than Jeff Ross or Nikki Glaser or Bill Belichick ever could. Just with his mere presence. There is simply no comeback for the insult that is Eli Manning's continued existence. 

And today, he made himself heard. And ruined everything we've been enjoying:

This fucking goon. This mouth-breathing runt of the Manning litter:

It's been 17- and 11 years respectively, and still the fact this man beat Brady twice, cost us two championships and what would've been the greatest single season in the history of team sports continues to haunt my every step. 

I've told this story before but I can't put it aside at a time like this. A week and a half after The Super Bowl That Shall Not Be Named Part I, Barstool threw a Mardi Gras party. At which I and one of our core readers/commenters (this was still the early days when we still knew much of our audience personally) stood in a corner the whole night pouring our grief out to one another. Until at one point he said, "You do realize there are models walking all over the place naked from the waist up with painted on shirts?" We had noticed. But there was no pleasure in attractive women exposing themselves for the entertainment of drunken strangers. There was only loss. Only grief. Only sorrow. And I wondered then if I'd ever be able to find happiness in anything ever again. And while yes, fortunately, there have been great moments of profound joy since then, the dark, Eli-shaped cloud is still ever-present, looming above every aspect of life in New England. 

I can forgive a lot of things. I've made peace with the fact fate dealt us this hand. Or how little sense it makes that this one barely average quarterback could somehow have been the bane of Brady's mighty existence. But what I can't ever forgive is this guy landing the best joke of the roast without even being there. There's no comeback line for that.