Twelve vs. Twelve
Nobody asked me.
But nobody has been divorced like me, either.
Take it from a true goat in the game of marriage, Mr. Twelve is going to be just fine without Mrs. Twelve nipping at his GOAT horns twenty-four-seven.
The Twelves have so much fucking money that my use of the always-magnificent f-word is just downright irrelevant. Their obscene joint account spits on human economic decency
Do I really have to regurgitate Mr. Twelve’s football accolades? Google “greatest of all time in anything.” Mr. Twelve is the white guy next to Mr. Twenty-Three, another divorcee who slayed every NBA opponent in sight with a slew of championships and MVP awards. Still, Mr. Twenty-Three deserved the Nobody Gives A Shit About Your Divorce Award because his ex was never a supermodel.
The Twelves’ divorce is like the cat fixated on the moving red dot. Mr. Quarterback versus Mrs. Victoria’s Secret.
Even more compelling than the vision of Mrs. Twelve modeling silky lingerie is the fact that she banked twice as much moolah as the world’s highest-paid supermodel than her iconic quarterback husband. In the All’s Fair in Love and Fuck-You Department, Mrs. Twelve should be paying Mr. Twelve alimony.
While it’s safe to say the Twelves won’t be hitting a soup kitchen for a meal anytime soon, the two have lived separately ever since Mr. Twelve decided to unretire and continue playing quarterback greater than anybody in the history of quarterbacks. He’s in the mansion overlooking Tampa Bay; she’s in the lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous crib in Costa Rica.
Oh, for the sake of the kids.
It’s beyond my wildest speculation why a gazillion dollars can’t buy two superstars enough happiness to do their own superstar thing and still co-exist as man-and-wife who were side-by-side at the front of the line when the Creator was handing out matching cheek bones, talent, and enough mortal joy and mirth to outshine the sun.
But there is one thing divorce has taught me about life’s most overrated institution: Once things go south behind closed doors, neither all the money in the world nor a chainsaw can cut through the tension. Every word is a chihuahua biting at the privates. Every conversation is a dogfight. Death is wished upon for merely existing.
Mrs. Twelve has been spotted lately not wearing her ring. She is fed up with Mr. Twelve holding her back with only one ring to show for 10 years’ worth of trouble.
Mr. Twelve does not have a ring problem, or any problems shy of taking his spoiled marriage out on the next poor bastard who tries to guard one of his receivers. With all that peace restored at home, Mr. Twelve is once again the odds-on favorite to slip an eighth ring on his true love’s finger.
Till death do they part.