You’re 23 years old, about to be a millionaire NFL player and have the ability to say “you know, I was on the sidelines that time the Longhorns came within 17 points of winning a national championship,” to every incoming freshman at the University of Texas for the next 50 years (which, by the way, isn’t creepy at all.) So, obviously the logical thing to do at this point is propose to the girl you’ve already been sleeping with since sophomore year.
Don’t get me wrong, I totally see the benefit in the whole marriage thing – especially to a girl who looks like a slightly younger version of the woman Tiger Woods used to cheat on. Hell, I understand there’s some sort of tax break involved. It just seems like a bit of weird timing for a guy who has the ability to, quite literally, live the dream. (Provided of course your version of the dream involves a parade of half-naked college girls and a slew of Shan Kemp-esque paternity suits.)
It’s just like Vince Vaughn said in Old School: "Alright, let me be the first to say congratulations to you. You get one vagina for the rest of your life. Real smart. Way to work it through."
Every one of the childless drunks I spend my Sundays watching NFL football with seem to be pretty happy…