What is it with you humans and golf courses? Seriously, you treat the land of 18 holes like it’s such a leisurely place but it’s actually really dangerous. For Pete’s sake.
Little known fact, Pete was a fly. True story. He used to deliver two scoops from the fresh pile every day before one of you bipedal fucks killed him with a fucking fly ball. Imagine the irony. Rest in Pete, buddy. For Pete’s sake.
In other sports news, yet another victim was physically assaulted by a celebrity who’s probably going to get away with it, Scott Free. That was the victim’s name, Scott Free. He was a cousin of Harvey Ballbanger here at A Fly On The Ball. Scott is currently in critical condition after Tom Brady violently attacked him at the golf course.
Scott was just trying to get the latest scoop from the freshest pile regarding whether we’ve seen Tom Brady’s last pass or not. There has been so much talk and speculation about whether Tommy Twelve is really hanging them up for good or if he’s going to lace them up one last time.
It seems to be getting on Tom’s nerves a bit. Everywhere you look, another headline reads, “Is Tom Brady Coming Out of Retirement?” Tommy can’t even enjoy a peaceful fucking day at the golf course anymore. That’s a quote, or at least that’s what other flies think they heard Tommy say before the splat happened. For Pete’s sake.
Wherever Tom goes, people recognize him. Unfortunately for Tom Brady, so do flies. Reliable eyewitnesses in the fly community saw Tom Brady take several swings at an innocent bystander, violently. The victim, a sports-crazed and self-described Tom Brady superfan, is a 15-day-old innocent fucking housefly who was in the prime of his life.
Other buzzworthy eyewitnesses say Scott was just minding his own business while being awestruck by the sight of Tom Brady at his local country club. Brady allegedly pulled a Microsoft Surface Pro out of his golf cart, saw something, and became very irritable with the flick of a switch.
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Tom Brady Swings Violently At Innocent Bystander
At the same time Tom was checking his tablet, Scott Free, an innocent flystander, was buzzing closer to Brady while trying to catch a glimpse of the screen. This is when Tom began swinging violently at Scott, several times.
Multiple eyewitnesses at the scene saw Scott get knocked unconscious by Tom’s bare hand while using a backslapping motion. Lipreaders report they saw him say, “Take that, bitch!” Scott fell to the turf, instantly. Then, there was a lot of commotion as Tom threw his Microsoft Surface Pro.
The tablet eventually landed on top of the knocked-out victim. One unconscious fly and a broken tablet screen with a headline displaying, “Tom Brady would ‘love nothing more’ than to return to the NFL” were all that remained at the scene.
The victim had to be airlifted to the nearest emergency trauma center. Authorities are still on the lookout for the suspect.
Eyewitnesses saw a man wearing a Tom Brady jersey fleeing the scene in an Aston Martin golf cart. As the golf cart driver was flashing his middle finger to onlooking gawkers, he proceeded to do a string of donuts that carved the number 12 in the putting green of hole eight.
Several eyewitnesses were able to count seven extremely gaudy rings on both of the suspect’s hands. For what it’s worth, there was also a bag of footballs in the back of the golf cart with the words “Perfect Balls” written in permanent marker on the cloth fabric.
Reports are unclear at this time but it’s been confirmed that Scott Free’s wings have been clipped for good. Sadly, he’ll never fly again. Have a drink for Scott next time you go wheels up. Poor buddy has been grounded for life, bro. Rest in pieces, Scott.
Seriously, what more do you need? Suspect? This publication might be legally obligated to say “suspect” when mentioning eyewitness accounts, but come on already. This guy is fucking guilty! Tommy got fingered! Fine though, in an effort to leave personal bias at the flytrap, it’s time to deliver the latest sports news with the twist of a steamy fresh pile.
Regarding Tom Brady’s coming out of retirement talk, there’s been a lot of empty steam coming from fresh piles all over the country. Some flies out there are just as manipulative and deceptive as the 1919 Chicago White Sox. You just can’t trust them.
For example, there is a certain group of flies who frequent South Beach claiming they can smell steam gathering for a Tom Brady unretirement party with the Miami Dolphins. Really? As a minority owner of the Las Vegas Raiders, how would that work? Dumbasses.
Meanwhile, should Jimmy Garoppolo be looking over his shoulder in Vegas? It wouldn’t be the first time Tommy ran Jimmy out of town and as everyone knows, America loves a great Tom Brady comeback story.
Well, don’t place your bets just yet. If his recent divorce is any indicator, Tom Brady might not be good at commitment. It’s probably the only thing Tom doesn’t knock out of the park, besides porn auditions that is. For Pete’s sake, Tom. Put some fucking clothes on.
Believe it or not, his well-publicized side hustle as an aspiring but aging adult film amateur doesn’t appear to matter to some fanbases. Many fans insist their team is ready to make a commitment to the 45-year-old, avocado ice cream eating goat.
Perhaps Tom Brady gets so frustrated about the speculation because he wants to play but he just doesn’t have it anymore. Before Scott ended up in the ER, he was working on this story:
“It’s late Sunday afternoon but this isn’t just another spiritual or religious gathering on the Lord’s Day. No. This is a transcendent experience. This is a conversion. From this day forward, your new idol will throw a laced oval-shaped leather ball because for the first time in your life, you are going to witness greatness.
For Tom Brady, playing on a late Sunday afternoon in February is nothing new. It’s the norm. Except, something feels off this particular Sunday afternoon in February. There’s a bitter chill in the air and everyone can feel it.
Everyone except Tom Brady. He has ice in his fucking balls. He’s ready for the big game. He’s always ready for the big game.
It’s Sunday, February 12, 2023. The clock reads 6:30 p.m. Eastern. The stadium is full of roaring fans and plenty of them have had more than their fair share of a few adult beverages. Who could blame them? It’s fucking Super Bowl Sunday!
It’s almost time for kickoff and players are waiting to emerge from the tunnels, hopefully ready to play the game of their life. It’s now or never. Guts or glory. Stragglers must be left behind. You must leave it all on the field or face the utterly crushing disappointment of your coach and teammates.
Tom Brady knows this. That’s why he has his cleats on, laces tied. His jersey is clean, fresh out of the laundry because his mom just washed it. Tom is having some buddies over to his mom’s basement for the big game.
You can smell the excitement and the pungent aroma of cauliflower wings in the air. Unrelated note, I think Tom just farted, so, I’m not sure if it’s the cauliflower wings or something else that’s contaminating the fresh air supply in the room.
Everyone except yours truly just cracked a farro-quinoa beer for pussies. Tom might have had one too many, just like the fans about to enjoy the game in Glendale, Arizona. Nobody in the room appears to be willing to speak up about it.
Just like that, the kickoff happens and suddenly Tom puts his helmet on, straps up, and has a football in his hands. There’s black war paint under his eyes, just like his playing days. The look in his eyes suggests there is a fire burning below and you don’t want to be caught with your pants down on the field.
Suddenly, as the offense begins to trot onto the field in Super Bowl LVII on TV, Tom Brady leaps up from the recliner and runs up the stairs, out the back door, and into the backyard of his mom’s house. His buddies, left behind in the basement, reluctantly began to get up while looking at each other and rolling their eyes.
A lot of exaggerated sighs were released. Tom’s chubby buddy in the corner, the one double-fisting a pussy beer and a cosmopolitan, said, “Shit. Here we go again.” The smelly one wearing a trucker hat with an image of Uncle Sam saying, “I Want 2 In The Pink & 1 In The Stink,” nodded his head in agreement. The guy with the MAGA hat was too busy cleaning his rifle.
“So much for watching the fucking game again,” said a female voice. That might have been Tom Brady’s mom. She had literally just sat down with a fresh raw zucchini slice wrapped in a piece of soggy seaweed, drone-delivered from New England. She had just dipped whatever that shit is in some horny goat weed sauce.
They all marched up the stairs to join Tom Brady in the backyard who could be heard from inside the house. Wait, was Tom Brady making adjustments and calling an audible at the line of scrimmage? I had to see this.
There is no way he could have seen something in the defense, he was not even watching the game! Once I buzzed outside, I could see Tom hunched over, acting like he was about to take a snap from the center. The only problem was, there wasn’t a center there. Or any other players for that matter.
As annoyed as they were, Tom Brady’s friends opened a shed full of shoulder pads, helmets, and spare jerseys. There was even a tackle dummy with Bill Belichick’s face taped on the head of it. Not sure what that’s all about.
His buddies began putting the football equipment on and lining up. For whatever reason, there were only uniforms from the Dallas Cowboys and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers available. It was becoming very clear that Tom Brady was not ready to let go of his playing days. As an avid Tom Brady fan, my wings were already flapping about the possibilities.
After all, Tom Brady was a free agent. Who wouldn’t want to add the greatest quarterback of all time to their NFL roster? It pretty much makes you instant Super Bowl contenders if you can land the goat of NFL passers. It’s official, another Tom Brady comeback is in the works!
I decided I better get my flyphone out to record this magic moment in sports history, the spark that would ignite Tom Brady’s eighth and perhaps final Super Bowl run. Unfortunately, that is not what onlookers witnessed that day. Not even close.
Instead, eyewitnesses were disappointed with an eerie reminder of Tom Brady’s final pass attempt in the NFL. The throw was way off. Way, way, way off.
After that misguided pass attempt in the backyard, Tom was livid, to say the least. He threw his helmet, stormed into the house, marched into his room, and slammed the door. Even his Michigan Wolverines pennant fell off the door but somehow the Super Bowl Winners Only sign remained perfectly in place.
On the record? Nothing noteworthy happened here. On to Cincinnati. Off the record? It’s official, Tom Brady has locked himself into his room. To this day, the door remains locked.
Since that day, Tom’s mom said Brady just hasn’t been the same. In a fit of rage, he destroyed every image or toy of a goat that was once gifted to him from beloved friends, family, and fans. Even the family’s pet goat, Lil’ Tommy, has had to find a new home. This is just another sad tale of what happens when a goat hits rock bottom after their time in the limelight fades away.
As much as it hurts to admit it, Father Time has finally caught up to Tom Brady. Not even hot yoga could return Tom Brady’s mojo to him these days. He remains locked in his room, in his mom’s basement, refusing to come out for anyone. Not even Gisele attempted to ring the bell. She’s too busy looking for new suitors.
In the end, the game of football will survive long after Tom Brady’s legacy becomes a fading memory of the distant past. However, few will ever leave their mark on the game quite like Brady did.
You might not have anything left in the fucking tank anymore, Tom Brady, and I’m sorry I ever had to witness your pathetic final pass attempt, but the game of football still thanks you. So do I. Those balls really are perfect, aren’t they?
Yours Truly and Tom Brady Superfan,
Scott Free
P.S. You probably couldn’t win another Super Bowl anyway. Maybe you just don’t have it anymore.”
Well, there you have it, folks. Yet another conspiracy exposed by A Fly On The Ball. Tom Brady caught wind of Scott Free’s breaking story and he personally led an assassination attempt in an effort to block the story.
Oh yeah, well, guess what? You’re on thin ice, Mr. Brady. Every fly in the world now has you on their shitlist, buddy!
No More Mister Nice Flies!
By the way, get well soon, Scott. We’re all pulling for you. All of us except Tom Brady that is. Harvey started a collection for your medical bills since Tom Brady isn’t stepping up to the plate. For Pete’s sake.
Do you actually believe this shit? What’s wrong with you? This article is 100% satire, and nothing you have fucking read on this page should be taken seriously.
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Buzz McFly hears all the latest buzz through his impressive network consisting of millions of flies swarming near every pile of shit in the entire world. When shit goes down, Buzz has eyes on the scene waiting to bask in the latest filth and dirt. Growing up an avid sports fan, his credibility in the field is second to none. He comes from a long line of spectator sporting event reporters willing to lay it all on the line for a fresh scoop of the latest news before it breaks wind anywhere else.
