Before he started working 120 hour work weeks, yes ladies and gentlemen, CT was born. No s***, he’s an actual human being.
It was a gorgeous -75 degree day in the North Pole when a starving polar bear stepped on a radioactive reindeer turd that just so happened to be laced with Yosemite Sam gun powder, and the accelerant caused a spark fiercer than the intro drum sequence to In The Air Tonight.
CT stared into the vast wilderness with his big blue eyes, contemplating all.
He immediately hated everything.
Staying awake at night in his igloo, he’d contemplate how he could get back at the snow, the thing that had turned him so cold and bitter.
When he awoke next morning for his breakfast of walrus blubber and fox gall bladder, the sunrise on the horizon pierced him, leaving a vitreous floater in his vision that temporarily emblazoned a hunched Dolphin with a helmet on. This pleased him so.
I shall venture to the land of the hunched Dolphins.
CT and the reindeer packed up and ran a go route south.
The long voyage was trying. Reindeer died of measles, dysentery, cholera and all the other symptoms in Oregon Trail.
Leaving the frozen tundra of the Arctic, thousands of miles later, CT and two reindeer finally made it to Miami.
And he immediately hated that, too.
How could the Dolphins win a Super Bowl with Ryan Tannehill if they couldn’t win one with Dan Marino?
So he started working 120 hours per week to not have to think about it.