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Then I lost my temper and tried to kill him. Four months after that Super Bowl, I smashed him and his motorcycle into a Chrysler New Yorker at 40 mph.
But the damned kid lived. And as he lay in critical condition at the hospital, an even worse thing happened: You fans started praying for his soul. I just can't tell you how much that complicates things.
I complained to God while we were playing racquetball one day. Even showed him my signed contract. But He just shrugged and said, "What can I do? People like the guy!"
But Ol' Beelze doesn't quit easy, Bub. Three months later I put a pox on Mr. Roethlisberger's appendix. It nearly burst, but he survived. I had his backup, Mr. Batch, make like Joe Namath, just to spite him. But two weeks later, Mr. Roethlisberger was right back in there. So, I made him start throwing like Marie Antoinette. At one point his passer rating was 34.3. My pet serpent could do a 34.3. The Steelers' record fell to 1--3, but you just kept right on loving him.
But he still wouldn't budge.
I'm stuck. I humbly ask for your help. I know it's not easy to have sympathy for the agent, but Mr. Roethlisberger and I had an agreement. Stop bailing him out with your infernal prayers and hope and faith in him. Please?
Or how about a compromise? I won't lodge him forever in a minotaur's colon, but can I at least trade him to Buffalo?
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