Dear Drew Brees,
You're it. You're all we have left. It's up to you to stand down and defeat what, most certainly, would be the most fellatio-ridden two weeks in media history. Unless you play at your best, we will be forced to endure millions of stories involving the words "gunslinger," "like a kid out there" and "Brett Favre is my hero *slurpslurpslurp*." Peter King, Terry Bradshaw, Mike Lupica, Chris Berman and every other hack journalist across this country will spend two full weeks walking around fully engorged, writing love letters with their erect phalluses. Yes Drew. Typing with their penises.
If you cannot succeed, a 40-year-old Brett Favre will make it to the Super Bowl, causing the internet, if not the entire universe, to implode, killing all of us. Our lives are in your hands Drew. Our lives. Are in. Your Hands.
Please win next Sunday Drew Brees. A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.