This Week in Patriot Superstition

 DATELINE:  The Devil You Say?

 off off-season     Most Off Off-Season Ever!

If you wait for Bill Belichick to let you know what’s going on in Patriot Nation, you’d be the victim of a fake news blockage.

Stephone Gilmore, one-time scapegoat of the big loss two weeks ago, suddenly has developed a concussion and will be unavailable for Sunday’s big game against the New York Jets.

The Jets, usually Pat patsies, are looking like the team Rex Ryan always hoped they would be. So, for the Pats to abruptly announce that Gilmore, one of their high-priced staples, is now suffering sudden concussion is a big deal. It is also a bit weird.

There were no reports of Gilmore injuries all week.

Maybe he fell in the bathtub. Perhaps he had one of those latent concussions that befall Tom Brady. His wife insists he has them, but Tom has no memory of that—and plays regardless of any headaches.

On top of this, another Patriot had to be extricated from his car in a terrible three-car accident on the way to Foxboro Friday night. He was rear-ended—and now he too is out for the foreseeable future. This is rookie Harvey Langi who was with his wife. Both have serious injury and have been hospitalized.

The fluke problems continue to mount up on the Patriots. We know the root cause, but no one is talking about it.

Just a few months ago, Tom Brady tempted fate deliberately by challenging superstition. He smashed a mirror with a hammer and walked under a ladder to prove there was nothing to these old tales of impending doom.

No one is laughing now.  And no one is acknowledging that Tom has been foolhardy once too often. He must think those special pajamas he wears make him look and behave like Spiderman.

Instead, he looks like the man with arachnophobia.

The rest of us are foaming at the mouth with Friday the 13th worries.

If the Jets beat the Patriots following a jinx day of the week, you know that Tom has tempted fate and called in the Devil’s boys.

We should warn Tom that the Devil is the author of confusion and often takes a pleasing form. The Devil is in the details and in the Botox. Every day a little Devil.

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High Cost of Men Accosting Women

DATELINE:  Naked Oscar in Gilt

oscar

In Hollywood, it is growing abundantly obvious that the only men who haven’t groped women are gay. That lets out repulsive men like Harvey Weinstein. What women would have gone with him willingly? He’s a toad—and clearly heterosexual.

We hesitate to ask if gay Hollywood icons have groped other men. We’ll have to ask Tab next time we see him. So far, we haven’t heard any charges—but since Hollywood is a place where copycats rule, you can expect the gay rapists to be fingered before Xmas.

You may expect a new sense of revisionist history: condemnation of formerly critically successful movies will be on the agenda because the participants and producers were sexist swine. Cue the recall of Oscar—a naked man in gold gilt.

In the meantime, we are hearing that Oliver Stone, Ben Affleck (but not Matt Damon), and sundry other men have proven their heterosexuality by accosting actresses. It must be a rite of spring.

Men, not accused of molesting women, will now be outed as disinterested parties (clubs where men dance only with other men).

Of course, at the time, usually in the distant 1990s, actresses expected to remain silent in the face of these kind of onslaughts. So, it is only 20 years later that a spate of rape charges is coming forth. We aren’t sure whether the statute of limitations has passed on some of these cold cases. We also wonder if an accusation is deadlier than actually finding someone is guilty.

Women are now boycotting Twitter because it is part of the male-dominated system. Apparently, these same women have missed the boat that Twitter also has favored the Russians over Hilary Clinton.

Since women are nowadays the primary readers in our society, writers like Hemingway are likely to be dunned more than ever. Expect a cadre of writers to come charging out of the closet soon.

If we start making judgments based on the thrilling days of yesteryear, no one will be safe. Twenty or thirty years ago was a different world, even if it pretended to be the Golden Age of Enlightenment.

If women are prepared to press the issue of male malfeasance, you can bet your bottom dollar and top drawer that these guys will go into rehab, aka “therapy,” which is certainly a way out of the dark and deep woods of the groped past.

As for us, we have always viewed light in the loafers as a standard defense.

 

The Long & Short of 3-Hour Movies

DATELINE:  Time is Short

Agreed

We have just informed well-intended friends who always recommend long movies to us, that our tolerance level has passed beyond endurance.

We are no longer putting three-hour movies on our dance card.

Gilligan’s Island started out as a three-hour tour, but turned into an epical series with TV movie sequels.

In our misspent youth, we watched Lawrence of Arabia multiple times. That was four hours a shot.  We also took in films like Cleopatra, or Ben Hur. It may be we saw them more than once.

Today long films are not a sign of epic historic proportion, like the Bridge on the River Kwai. We watched recently again Once Upon a Time in the West, which was not only long—but slow. Those oldies were fascinating, whereas today’s movies are pompous, overwritten stories by directors who happen to think of their own self-importance before the audience’s bladder.

Hitchcock thought film should err on the short side to match the human kidney tolerance. Even he exceeded our new guidelines by pushing movies to two-hours.

Nowadays we always figure there are six minutes of credits at the end. That helps if we skip that, though we are loath to do so.

We still believe the best movie is under 90 minutes. As much as we dislike Woody Allen, he had the right idea. Many of his best movies were only 75 minutes in length. Including credits.

Before you point out that we have watched many series like Downton Abbey, Bette and Joan, and Endeavour, all recently, we would point out that those are episodic and run usually an hour.

Most of the time they’re also self-contained. It took 25 years to film all of The Poirot Agatha Christie stories. We don’t intend to take 25 years to watch them. However, they are usually about an hour in length.  A few of the classics are shorter movies. More than tolerable.

The upshot of our complaint is that we are no longer in the market for epic movies to be watched in one long sitting. Our life is now counting down to a precious few days.

If we’re going to spend time on a movie, hovering over three hours in length, it had better be special.

Old Doc Brady’s Homeopathic Remedies

 DATELINE:  Bad Book Advice?

 tom in lost horizon Lost Horizon-bound: Dear Tom

Medical experts are lambasting GOAT Tom Brady, also known around here as Old Doc Brady, for dispensing false medical information in his new best-selling book.

As a result, Tom took to defending his half-baked ghost-written book at the post-game presser. He knows what he knows—and he tells what he believes. Usually on the offense, Tom took up a defensive position.

Brady recommends hydrating to prevent sunburn. Doctors are incensed, if not downright burnt to a crisp over this fallacious advice.

Dressed all in black, like an undertaker or hangman, at a recent press conference, Dr. Tom defended his cure-all advice. He came across like Johnny Cash bad-ass.

Most people fail to realize Tom’s new book is actually a satire. It’s like James Hilton’s Lost Horizon, the novel about a fantasy world called Shangri-La.

The lost Himalayan city called Shangri-La is a place where people stay young forever, owing to some secret rejuvenation in the water. Who knew Tom’s hidden paradise is just north of Foxborough in Brookline.

In his private Shangri-La, as far as we know, Tom could be getting Serum from goat gland injections like old Somerset Maugham used to do. What better way to stay young for an old GOAT than to have goat serum!

If you follow Tom’s highly expensive regimen, you would end up spending $500 for Botox in each area treated. You’d spend $300 for his specially tailored pajamas. And his food program cost another $300 to $400 per month. You can never be too rich or too thin.

This homeopathic doc is certainly not the grizzled, but lovable, sawbones from Stagecoach, the classic movie. Tom sees himself as young Dr. Kildare.

Those trying to stay young forever would have a better chance of finding eternal youth by going to the Himalayan mountains than to follow Tom Brady’s secret recipe.

Whatever Happened to Agatha?

DATELINE:  1979 Vanessa Redgrave Movie

 agatha:vanessa Redgrave with Hoffman

The biopic movie about the mysterious disappearance of Agatha Christie remains a fairly puzzling non-explanation as can be found.

In Agatha, the Michael Apted movie is scruptiously produced and has big stars of the day in the key roles:  Timothy Dalton, fresh off James Bond, as Captain Christie, the unloving husband who drives his wife to distraction—and Dustin Hoffman as a no-nonsense American journalist who is hot on the trail of the missing mystery writer.

Vanessa Redgrave’s eyes steal the picture as the writer. Willowy, she is hardly like the real Agatha  who was a well-fed Miss Marple type. However, there are hints to indicate this is the same methodical writer who produced so many classics of fiction. Dame Agatha seems to apply her writing habits to orchestrating a disappearance that is inexplicable.

Mrs. Christie actually left her child for eleven days—and was dealing with her mother’s death at the time of her strange disappearance. Neither of these points is made in the movie.

All in all, the viewer is led to believe this was an insensitive publicity stunt, though the writer may have wanted to punish her husband who is having an affair—and Agatha may be researching how to do in her husband’s paramour.

Hoffman is physically dwarfed by the tall, elegant Redgrave, but he gives a sharp performance. However, he too seems to send mixed messages as to his real motives as Wally Stanton, a deceptive investigator. If the real Stanton looked like Hoffman, Christie would have seen her model for Hercule Poirot, a role Hoffman might have played with more relish.

Ultimately, this fictional theory about the incident of Christie’s weird disappearance is about as unsatisfying as you could give the audience.

Along the way, the performances are meant to distract and impress. Indeed, they do. If Christie had plotted this script, she would have done a better job.

(This entry is one of a series of blogs on Agatha Christie.)

Red Sox Players Don’t Like Boston Much

DATELINE:  Boston Not Their Home

fan Red Sox Fan

We heard that Las Vegas shooter Stephen Paddock considered coming to Fenway Park to bestow the city of Boston with his insane mass murder on the joint. This horrid revelation has not made a ripple with this year’s team of disgruntled, unhappy Red Sox players.

This will be our only piece about the Red Sox this year, as their season is coming to a close soon. Yeah, they are in the playoffs. Not that anyone in Boston gives much of a fig. This bunch is not liked.

Baseball fans love Fenway. They are lukewarm toward these players. If you believe baseball is business, these teammates come to the office, pick up their paychecks, but would rather play in any other city. They have no ties to Boston.

It could have something to do with the media. They hate the media, including homers like former Sox Hall of Famer Dennis Eckersley who was berated and attacked earlier in the season by pitcher David Price, a pitcher whose option likely will put him elsewhere in a season ahead.

He hates Boston.

Dustin Pedroia has played his entire career in the city, but has never embraced the town like David Ortiz, the last Sox player to be part of the community.

You figure after a dozen years, Pedroia would have some ties to Boston. He doesn’t.

Perhaps they have heard racial taunts at Fenway. Some fans dispute this allegation, but the players seem stand-offish to the Olde Towne. Most don’t like the liberals around here.

Young players are stuck here, but would rather play elsewhere. For example, Jacoby Ellsbury never embraced Boston, and preferred to move on to the Yankees where he is happier being anonymous than a star in Bean Town.

These Red Sox do not love the Dirty Water. Most probably wouldn’t understand the reference. They don’t want to be here and will disperse quickly next week when their seasonal prison sentence in Boston ends.

Good riddance to this team of apathetic nobodies.

 

Patriots Go to Hurricane Ravaged Tampa

DATELINE: Ill Winds in Tampa

off off-season

Thursday night in Tampa, the Patriots will lick their wounds and try to make former thug Jameswhatsis Winston pay for his past sins as a serial woman abuser. We doubt the defense is up to the job as morality police.

In the meantime, the Pats may want to visit one of the local hoosegows. It seems Jonas Gray, their one-game phenom of 2014, spent some time there recently for failing to pay for his child support.

Gray, the standup comic who failed to make Bill Belichick laugh, had one great game—and was benched for arrogance before Belichick, in his infinite wisdom, cast him adrift.

Gray became invisible and fell into disrepute faster than you can spell Kolin Kaepernick korrectly.

In the meantime, the Pats took off from Rhode Island for the land where a hurricane named Irma (or was it Harvey?) tested Trump’s ability to help white people survive a disaster.

We learned through special snooping that Tom Brady had a reserved seat in the front row of the new private Patriot jet. It’s the row with the most legroom. Yes, the seats on JetKraft are numbered with the player number. #12 is actually #1.

We did our crack work, but not on crack, to learn that the man sitting next to Tom was fellow captain and sweetheart of a moral goodness, Matthew Slater. Matthew has not played much this season, owing to injury, but he is keeping Julian Edelman’s seat warm.

Owners and coaches are in what would be considered first-class, where Kraft also has a bedroom where he can sleep well after berating his friend,  President and Lord of the Flies, Donald Trump.

In the meantime, the Pats have escaped Dodge City in Foxboro where their team is under siege. It now seems the NFLPA has called the new fake sod at Gillette “borderline actionable.” Talk about fake news.

We wonder if new turf will await the Pats during the Thanksgiving game when they conduct their world tour of disaster areas: Mexico City, earthquake central, is their next hot spot on the road.

Russian Agents in The Serpent

DATELINE: Cold War Star Vehicle Still Resonates

the serpent

If deals with the Russians worries you, we found the perfect movie: The Serpent, a movie from the height of the Cold War that you may have missed. We are not sure it even played in American theatres.

We remain stunned by the stellar cast:  Henry Fonda, playing the head of the CIA, a version of Allen Dulles; his counterpart from England, in the person of Dirk Bogarde, and Farley Granger as Fonda’s aide-de-camp. Also around is 1940s star Robert Alda (yes, Alan’s father) as an interrogator of Russian defector Yul Brynner. Virna Lisi is around as  femme fatale. This concoction was directed by French master Henri Verneuil.

This is wishful John LeCarre, pulled from the bottom drawer of your spy genre. Yet, it is compelling to see the stars walking through the CIA headquarters in the age before computers.

We loved the scene of Brynner wired up for a lie detector test. He has more cables on him than an Xfinity technician, including a facial harness that Mr. Ed once wore.

We are shown the hard-working CIA agents at Langley—and it is hard work because they have to read stacks of newspapers and listen to radio broadcasts. There are computers in the CIA, but forget unobtrusiveness. These computers pre-date Marshall McLuhan. Not one is smaller than a two-story house.

Brynner plays one of the Kremlin bigwigs thrown out of power by Brezhnev in the mid-1960s—and he has plenty to tell the Americans, if they deign to trust him.

The Russians were pulling the wool over the eyes of Americans when Trump was a young entrepreneur without a thought of collusion.

By lending their considerable presence to the shenanigans, you have something more than a low-budget spy drama. We hesitate to call it a thriller. It could more rightly be labelled a sleeper. We certainly enjoyed it.

Patriots First Class Jet Set

DATELINE:  Off They Go into the Wild Blue Yonder

The New England Patriots may look like they are a tank job, but they are soon to be privately airborne.

Yes, the Trump jet has nothing on the AirKraft, owned by Patriot billionaire Robert Kraft who surely took his ideas from flying on Air Force One with President Trump.

The Patriots will take their first road trip in the newest former American Airlines superjet, now fitted to accommodate wide seat players with more leg room and wider seats than you have in normal first-class.

Never mind that the Pats are beginning to look like a bad coach’s idea of a team.

The new Pat jet has enough room for all players, coaches, and hangers-on. There is a lounge area, and even a bedroom for the president: we mean President Kraft as they wend their way to Tampa to play on Thursday.

The jet took out 250 seats and made more luxurious rows for the backfield.

Customized and rebuilt, the new Patriot transportation is better than their defensive unit, that will fly in the tail end, and soon on the wing, according to Bill Belichick, unless they improve.

take off

Tom Brady has a special spot to allow him the space for his retinue (that’s a posse for a near billionaire GOAT).

We await the news on which players will be allowed to sit next to Tom; it’s already a dogfight on the bench at Gillette.

No, we have not heard whether the media will be given accommodations in the cargo hold with the dirty uniforms.

Nero Trump: USFL’s Revenge

DATELINE: The Sky is Falling

 USFL

Nero Trump with his USFL star Hershel Walker

If the New England Patriots played in a domed stadium, we would be tempted to say the roof is caving in.

Instead, we are more like a giant Chicken Little, running around, in a panic, reporting to Patriot fans everywhere.  We wish we could be more like William Dawes or Paul Revere, making that midnight ride.

We would be calling out as we rode down Mass. Ave. in Cambridge, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”

In the Foxboro Empire of the once powerful and mighty New England Patriots, it’s beginning to look a lot like the fall of the Roman Empire.  The Huns are at the gates of Gillette Stadium, and it is no longer a safe haven where Patriots could their victories.

Our latest Caesar, Emperor Nero Trump, our lord of the flies, is presiding over the fall season. And the Patriots are in for a big fall.

Robert Kraft, member of the Three Stooge NFL owners’ consortium, may need to Stooges take a knife to his bath where all good members of the NFL family of owners cut their wrists.

It’s beginning to look like the NFL needs to find a Spartacus to stand up to Laurence Olivier Trump.

In the meantime, the Patriots are in decline as Roger Goodell always wanted. Yet, his intentions may be thwarted by the President who once was blackballed by the NFL and not allowed to own a team like the Patriots. Who remembers the USFL?  Perhaps only Donald Nero Trump.

With his Patriot friends, Nero Trump is out for blood from the NFL.  If you recall, some decades ago, they froze him out of the owners’ circle and denied his attempt to become an NFL owner in 1986 with his USFL team.

Revenge is sweet, three decades later for the President who was denied a chance to own an NFL team like the Patriots.

Stephon Gilmore, Scapegoat

DATELINE:  Hold the Stephone, Fans

Stephon

In New England, Tom Brady is the GOAT, and this week Stephon Gilmore is the goat. He only wishes he were the scapegoat, which implies a false guilt.

There is a big difference between champs and chumps—and that means you, Gilmore.

Brady brought the team back from a two-touchdown disadvantage to tie the game with minutes left. It looked like the scenario for another miraculous victory.

Then, Gilmore put his hands in the face of Panther, thus ending a stop that would have returned the ball to Tom for another score.

What will be will be. Let’s sing along with Doris Day.

Gilmore makes $65 million dollars to be caught doing bonehead plays. He later said it was failure to communicate that was to blame, as if his Cool Hand Luke play would play in New England.

Gilmore is no Paul Newman, though he has a choke-hold on failure to communicate.

The Patriots, who made 16 kneeling players put a hand to their heart and stand with a hand on the shoulder of the next fellow, lost again. It may be the loss of the Super Bowl flashed before our eyes.

Even the Jets won on his day—and perhaps winning the division is not a lock after all. Tom Brady has been knocked down more in four games this season than in the previous five years combined.

So far, he has not been concussed.

Maybe it’s time for Jimmy G to go out and take one for the team, giving Tom a rest until the rest of his goats can be herded into a semblance of a victorious unit.

Rocket scientist Matt Patricia has had another nuclear warhead blow up on the Launchpad.

Swami Bill Belichick looks like a man who actually has dyspepsia this season.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trump Gives NFL a Concussion

DATELINE: Trump Playing without a Helmet glad gladiators

Money talks and President Trump listens. No man is an island in the NFL, and woe to islands that are decimated by hurricanes.

Mr. Stump Trump, our Lord of the Flies, has encouraged his followers to seek financial remuneration through demands for refunds from NFL teams, and some former fans have even claimed to boycott the football games, driving ratings to alleged lows.

Whether this is true or has any lasting merit is not yet clear.

On the other hand, it is clear that Trump has cast the island of Puerto Rico adrift. We don’t know if any games have had protests on the island because we don’t think anyone is playing games while their lives are facing a lack of drinking water, no electrical power, and isolation from social media.

And you thought the NFL has a problem.

Half the teams in the NFL are losers again this week. It’s the nature of the beast. However, Trump will now take credit for having players stand in respect, hands over hearts, arms linked, hands on shoulders, as the “Star Spangled Banner” unfurls. We feel that the Nazi salute is not far from Trump demands.

Millions watch games. Trump attends a fancy golf tournament at a golf club that costs $500,000 to join.  There is plenty of disconnect here with players in the NFL who make no less than that per season, with many making millions. Fans pay plenty to go to games and express their free speech right to the minions of the sport who have no rights in Trump’s world.

Respect is a one-way street in Trump’s America.

Like the ancient Roman gladiators, who died entertaining their rapacious fans, the NFL players must stand and repeat, “We who are about to be concussed salute you,” to Trump as he sits like Nero in his golf suite.

Many will contribute much of their earnings to the DumpTrump movement that is burgeoning among American citizens with and without a brain concussion.

As a Trump donor in the previous election, we receive nearly daily requests to voice our support and loyalty to Donald Trump. The requests center upon a donation of $1 to prove our loyalty. No one has asked us to boycott games and boo NFL players—yet.

Nor have we been asked to donate to relief funds for Puerto Rico by the same committee supporting Trump. The money is for the president, not citizens without homes, water, or to end a life threatening struggle to survive.

It has made us a tad sick.

It’s all the problem of “fake news media,” though it is growing unclear who the real fake is.

 

 

 

 

 

Melania Trump Suffers from Bookworms

DATELINE:  Beauty Meets the Beast

Melania

Immigrant-come-lately Melania Trump will find no sanctuary in one of the biggest sanctuary cities in the United States. They have put her on ICE.

Our beautiful and exotic First Lady has run headlong into a beastly book monster.

A librarian in Cambridge, Massachusetts, has rejected any overture of kindness from the First Lady—and has not shown her American hospitality in the least.

In an age when most young people are not encouraged to read and won’t do much reading, except on Twitter where sentences are limited to 140 characters, a self-righteous librarian has decided to burn the books gifted to her library in Cambridgeport.

Mrs. Trump sent to the library about a dozen books written by Dr. Seuss as part of a gift she dispersed around the nation.

Melania would read them to her young son, Barron, several years ago and thought they would be a wonderful gift to any well-stocked library.

She didn’t consider they already had some editions, and she didn’t consider maybe she should’ve sent them to an underprivileged library of some wayward public school without much resource.

Nor did Mrs. Trump suspect that among liberal activists, Dr. Seuss is now considered even more suspect of being a secret racist–and hiding it in plain sight of the Grinch.

This gave a liberal librarian the opportunity to say nay– and throw kerosene on the books and bric-a-brac at the First Lady.

Not since Joseph Goebbels took over the libraries of Nazi Germany have we seen such anti-intellectual attitude. And this, from a librarian who prefers to read children books about same sex pecadillos and union organizers.

Mrs. Obama often read the Dr. Seuss books to young students during her visits to school children when she was First Lady. Somehow between Mrs. Obama and Mrs. Trump, the books in question became racist. At least in the mind of one liberal librarian.

So, banning books now has moved directly into the most liberal bastion in America:  Cambridge, Mass., where we once lived as a child—and hated Dr. Seuss as a sidelight.

Little did we know that indoctrination was part of our education.

Mrs. Trump now has been infected by bookworms.

 

 

What Price Glory? Bees’ Knees Have It

DATELINE: Trump’s Magical Misdirections

trump apron strings

The NFL anthem protest is a tempest in a teapot. Trump is dealing with more Teapot Dome tempests than any president since Warren G. Harding.

You might think there is no possible resolution to the knee-jerk reaction of Donald Trump to NFL protesting players. Forget them not: Basketball of the NBA is on the horizon where the lives of black players matter big.

When Trump notes that NFL owners are afraid of their plantation slaves, we are reminded that such a mentality was quite prevalent in the early 19th century among cotton-picking businessmen. Like any good magician, Trump is misdirecting his audience away from his sleight of hand, like a Mississippi riverboat charlatan.

So, the NFL has called in team captains and owners for a meeting of the minds. Fear is a great equalizer.

Roger Goodell met on Thursday with Devin McCourty and Matthew Slater, two New England Patriot leaders—and with owner Robert Kraft. Tom Brady seems to have taken a powder with his MAGA hat.

Powers that be may well be worried over the few knuckleheads who have burned their team jerseys with blow torches and have sworn never to watch another football game.

We don’t believe it. These followers of social media are like junkyard dogs, barking up a storm, but in the heady days of Super Bowl hype, we feel they will find their mettle melted.

Perhaps football Sunday should be immune from politics and inflammatory rhetoric. Fat chance with the Lord of the Flies Donald Trump tweeting out with presidential flair and Dumbo abandon.

Arm-in-arm, solidarity against racism would seem to be a no-brainer, though some conservatives feel the venue is inappropriate. Yet, their message is lost in a blinding white-out storm.

Anticipated more than victory may be the pre-game anthem, a place in America where black men have risen to fame and fortune while the majority of their peers face daily worry that a stray bullet may end their black and bleak lives.

If Russian agents exploited ‘Black Lives Matter’ to win a national election for the Lord of the Flies, you can bet your bottom dollar that, as that Fenway Park sign told a few weeks back, racism is as American as football and baseball, not to mention basketball.

 

Stranger Bedfellow: Peyton Manning

DATELINE:  Super Bowl Hay Woven into Political Gold

At one point during the heyday of Tom Brady, way back when he was young, everyone thought that the future for Tom Brady, Donald Trump’s quondam friend would be a career in politics. He had the red hat and he had the swagger.

Trump even lobbied him as a husband for Ivanka a dozen years ago. Tom’s certainly a better catch than Jared Kushner.

There was inevitable talk he would seek a role in political office in Massachusetts, though the state is probably a tad more liberal for him than his actual politics. Tom doesn’t need deodorant because avocado ice cream smells better than it looks.

However, the Trump people may be more delighted with that pizza-slinging huckster-cum-politician Peyton Manning.

The man who plays more golf with Trump than Brady is a rank conservative icon. Yes, word is out that Tennessee may be needing a new senator next year–and Peyton Manning has a “Hail Mary” chance and pass in his future.

Considered highly popular among those who never kneel except in church, and well-known not just for his on-field antics, but his off-field commercials, he knows something about sound bites.

Jingles and jingoism are not alien to Peyton. Nationwide Insurance and health care are up his passer rating. Just ask him to hum a bar or two.

We wait to discover whether his conservative ultra-right positions will sit well with the American public in general.  We know they will likely sit quite well in Tennessee, where the Beverly Hillbillies originally hailed—and where bluegrass is unusually red around the neck.

Politics makes strange bedfellows, and nothing could be stranger than to find Tom Brady still playing in the NFL– and Peyton Manning in the United States Senate.