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.

Brady’s Former Bunch

DATELINE:  Back-ups to Tom

 

Sunday was a football day without much interest unless you like to sing the National Anthem while everyone stands.

Of most interest to us, three of Tom Brady’s former backups were the starting football games for other teams.

We suspect Tom was caught up in the NFL Red Zone, trying to keep tabs on his former acolytes. They range in age to young pup to old-timer. Brady was their senior, going back to the beginning.

The most successful of these QBs was the most recent of these. We speak of Jacoby Brissette, now the starting quarterback of the Indianapolis Colts. He is a temporary replacement and back up for Andrew luck, but probably looks like he deserves to be the starter.

Alas, the curse of Tom Brady is to always be the back up.

Also playing against each other were Matt Cassel, the man who took Tom Brady’s place during the one season Tom was injured. And Brian Hoyer who has kicked around for some time and is now starting for the San Francisco Deplorable 49ers. He replaces that unemployed Kapernaeck kneeler.

It’s nice to know there is life after Tom. However, for Tom, life begins at 40, whereas for the rest, it will end in the NFL much sooner.

These former Patriots form a trio that should give Jimmy Garrapolo some sense of confidence that one day he too shall start a game somewhere in the NFL.

However, if we saw anything from the fate of three Brady back ups, it was that it is a difficult task to follow in the footsteps of Tom Brady. After studying him for years, these quarterbacks still cannot ambulate like the greatest of all-time.

They are about as memorable as the trio Nat King Cole dumped when he went solo.

Sad to say, Cassel, Brissette, and Hoyer, may have already had their day in the sun. Alas, their day in the sun was a day in the shadow of Tom.

Poirot’s Murder Most Foul, Justice Most Brutal

DATELINE:  Another Remake on the Horizon

best orient express

Best Version of Murder on the Orient Express

The David Suchet version of Murder on the Orient Express is a completely different movie than the glitzy Hollywood all-star version of the 1970s. It is utterly dark. And it is far more cynical than the Christie novel, but is faithful next to the newest star-cartoon vehicle coming out soon with Kenneth Branagh as an unconvincing Poirot.

The teleplay version created a stunning, dank and dark 1930s. Perhaps this was what Agatha Christie intended in far more subtle manners.

From the opening scenes of  Belgian detective  Hercule Poirot being blood-splattered by a suicide to witnessing a stoning of an unfaithful wife in Turkey, the adapted version is far more than an entertaining murder mystery. It is a chilling morality play. It’s a play against films like Twelve Angry Men with a twist.

The Suchet version plays far more on the American nature of the melting pot of train travelers on the Orient Express. As one who defends the justice system, Poirot becomes alarmed, then horrified by the story’s unraveled mystery.

You won’t find the big names of the Albert Finney-Poirot movie. Here you will find Barbara Hershey, Toby Jones, and Hugh Bonneville, if you like name stars, but actors like Brian J. Smith as the victim’s secretary carry a heavy load.

Poirot loses all faith in humanity, and Suchet’s suffering face drives home the horror. In fact, his mustache does not turn off at the ends as much as the earlier shows.

A new version is forthcoming, directed by Kenneth Branagh who plays a flinty version of Poirot, rather unfaithful to the novel. Branagh’s mustache of Poirot is deplorable!

In the protracted series, the Orient Express episode was from the 12th season when the Belgian sleuth seemed bereft of all hope, as if a lifetime of dealing with murder finally sapped him of purpose and optimism. The original tale took its core from the Lindbergh kidnapping case, but became something else in the hands of Dame Agatha.

This compelling little Suchet film is brilliant, but a cold indictment of cruel justice among civilized people. The stark white snow drifts that stall the train on its journey contrast with the dark inner lives of the passengers.

If you want escapist fare, turn to the Hollywood version of Christie’s Orient Express. If you want catharsis, turn to David Suchet’s incisive portrayal of despair.

 

This blog entry is another in a series on Agatha Christie.

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.

Holmesian Logic Applied to the Las Vegas Shooter

DATELINE: The Third Man or Stephen Paddock?

Welles as Third Man Welles as Harry Lime

A few friends have asked us to apply Sherlockian logic to the Las Vegas shooter case that has baffled so many people—and confounded police.

Authorities find Stephen Paddock a conundrum that defies profiles created by criminologists.

We deduce, first of all, that investigators have been probing deeply beyond obvious facts. The obvious often is deceptive and will mislead investigators.

After all, it was Sherlock Holmes who famously said that you need to eliminate all the impossible factors—and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

We must ask ourselves, what is served by misery, violence, and fear?

Paddock’s actions justify a private revenge, making his secrets all the more imponderable.

So, what can we deduce about the man who had millions of dollars from life as a high roller? He was confident in the risks and his odds of beating them.

Paddock was a fugitive from the law of averages.

This was an angry man who felt disrespected by society, despite his success as a gambler. He felt his status as an older, white male gave him no advantage in terms of respectability. As the sands of life passed by, he was dissatisfied with his lot. He hated time. It was cheating him.

Over the years, he found the ease of beating the system put him above law and society. He won millions of dollars by playing games against those he felt were dolts of society.

Paddock mistrusted other people—and had no need for their assistance. He worked alone in his problem-solving. People were manipulated to serve his own goals.

Paddock was a coward. He could not face the people he loathed—those who found happiness in simple living. He preferred the edginess of risk-taking. Thus, like infamous fictional killer Harry Lime, he took up a high position to commit his crime.

If you recall, Lime looked down on people from the perspective of a Ferris-wheel where his victims looked like “dots.” The film is The Third Man. It was easy to dehumanize those who would die if they are merely squirming dots in a dark night.

The armaments at his crime scene suggest he knew this could be a “glorious” Waterloo for him, but the use of cameras indicate he planned for the possibility to beat the law of averages to kill again.

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.

 

Is Cam Newton a Maroon?

DATELINE:  All Routes Lead to Idiocy

cam

In case you have forgotten, Cam Newton reminded you that it’s his picture you find next to the expression “Dumb Jock” in the Encyclopedia of Sports Idiocy.

In the immortal words of the great American philosopher Bugs Bunny: “What a maroon!”

Yes, Cam did it again at a press conference. He told everyone how funny it was to hear a female sports reporter talk about routes. Cam’s favorite movie is Where the Boys Are—because he knows the route, having gone that route many times for a few bucks.

Women never talk to Cam about anything of substance. In fact, Cam is more at home with the boys and shop talk where the only playbook he reads is mostly x and o demonstrated.

He is just another pretty face in a bubble head to match his bubble butt.

Cam will never be caught with a pencil behind his ear like a nerd. We doubt that he knows how to hold a pencil or can work anything out on paper.

Yes, Cam is extremely beautiful to look at, but you probably can’t take him many places unless he is on a leash and you have your doggie bag with you.

If football ends tomorrow for the Giant Fig Newton, he can always use those amazing talents to star in gay porn where a giant brain is the least of your worries.

Don’t get us wrong: we find Cam easy on the eyes and we have enough brains for the two of us.

Is Trump a Moron?

DATELINE:  Smarting Insults

rex Smarty Pants Rex Tillerson

After Secretary of State Rex Tillerson declined to refute the accusation that he privately called President Donald Trump a “moron,” we have to investigate the ramifications.

Kim Jung Un recently called Mr. Trump a “dotard.” It seems to be open season on the mental state of the MAGA-low-maniac’s personality.

Both moron and dotard used to be early 20th century terms used by prototypical psychologists. Then, the unwashed, deplorable public took up the words—thus rendering them on the lighter side of slander and libel.

Dotard used to refer to someone with Old Timers’ Disease in the old days before punchy and punch-drunk went the way of medical diagnosis.

Moron was frequently a level of retardation before that went down the tubes to emerge as Downs’ Syndrome. A moron used to be someone with the intellectual acuity of a ten-year-old. However, we have met some fairly sharp ten-year-olds—and feel that is a bum rap.

Our deplorable education system has finally resulted in a generation of deplorable voters electing a deplorable candidate. Let’s take quotes off the term moron.

Well, you know the term is often lumped in with idiot, imbecile, fool, clod, dullard, nitwit, dumbbell, jerk, and the all-purpose loser. It’s a big tent of disparaging terms proving all roads lead to Rome. You don’t need GPS to figure out that the map is littered with wrong turns.

We know Mr. Trump is lost in there somewhere. However, we have concluded he is most likely to respond to his favored sobriquet: son of a bitch, often used to delineate and denote NFL football players who have arthritic knees or pray for deliverance from “rednecks.”  But that’s another story.

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.

Nikki Haley: Hatemonger

DATELINE:  Crypto-Nazi Emerges at UN

 NIcki Haley, armed & dangerous

Armed & Dangerous

UN ambassador Nikki Haley has now become Public Enemy #1 in the gay community of the United States. You might as well put her on an FBI wanted poster in every post office around the world.

With her vote in support of executing gay people, she put the United States in a basket of Deplorables with 12 of the most backward Arab states. Now our United States has joined the notorious group of repressive nations that are one step away from Nazi Germany’s execution of Jews.

When you advocate the genocide of a group of people, you are a Nazi, Ambassador Haley. You can’t put a pretty bow on it and claim that’s not what you did. It is exactly what your vote meant.

Not since Anita Bryant took on the Gay Community to her everlasting infamy of self-destruction, by throwing gay people out with the orange juice, has there been a woman who has become the face of gay scorn. Nicki Haley is the obvious Doppleganger of Anita Bryant.

Nikki Haley may be the first real casualty of the Trump political wars. She has effectively ended any future career in politics by joining the Trumpet Administration and becoming its new Crypto-Nazi, white supremacist pretty face.

Though she since insists her vote was not anti-gay, it’s hard to support voting against a resolution to call for NOT executing gay people for their lifestyles. She may think she has been misunderstood and misjudged. This is called self-delusion.

Welcome to the world of the LGBTQ community, where people are misjudged and misunderstood every day. Yes, Nikki Haley, that’s you, the face of the new Nazi-ism in America.

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.