But, this week, I have been following the Brett Favre ("Bretty") meltdown, probably because it has certain literary merits. Bretty, in case you have been dead and only recently resurrected by sipping water from a holy grail (thanks, Sean Connery, Harrison, Ford, Steve Spielberg, and of course, that bastard who messed up the Star Wars saga with Jar Jar Binks), was a player for the Packers (snicker...I said Packer). Bretty decided to "retire" earlier this year due to 'mental tiredness'. In other words, he needed to be 'mentally retired' after the last season of playing the fools ball. Bretty was loved and worshipped in Cheeseland so suicides in Wisconsin increased, garments were rended, and mourning was in abundance after his retirement. Then all moved on.
A few weeks after that announcement, Brett hinted he wanted to come back. Apparently, the two naps, warm chocolate milk, and cozy 'banky' time made all the difference to his mental tiredness. He hinted at returning as adulation is hard to leave. The Packers did not pick up on the hint. He hinted some more. The Packers and Wisconsin pretty much ignored the hints, as you would an elderly relative who keeps hinting that she wants to see the all-nude Andy Williams Revue to check out his 'huckleberry friend'.
The Packers got a replacement for Bretty. Fans rejoiced, many babies were conceived in celebration because that is how Cheeseland expresses joy...via procreational activities. Cheese was being rapidly made, and Wisconsin passed more laws allowing intra-familial marrying. It was a new era of happiness. Everyone had moved on, thinking Bretty was going to enjoy his family time and his millions, and recover from his tiredness. Perhaps Bretty would buy a SuperBowl ring on ebay? He was happier than BP finding a box of vodka in her closet, happier than Panda discovering there is no cure for Deafness, happier than SpinePuncher at a chiropractor's office, happier than Nets when she discovered a 28-hour workday, happier than Barkles finding a squirrel with a broken leg and a fat butt, ok, you get it.
However, Crack Bretty kept hinting and hinting. This went on for months. Bretty would not stop. He was like a zombie ex-footballer, newly risen from his richly-appointed mausoleum. Oh, limelight, Bretty wondered, why do you not shine on me anymore? One night, while watching Little Giant on his 500-inch LCD, it hit him.
"Because I don't play anymore. They loved me when I played the football." He quickly took a whore's bath, put on clean panties and jumped into his SUV and drove to Lambeau. Unfortunately, he had to come home because it was 1AM at night. A little early. On his way back home, he hit a raccoon in the butt, causing extreme constipation (in raccoon).
Bretty amplified his hints to a crescendo....let me come back!! A Moses of one, only he thundered 'Let me play football' rather than 'Let my people go!'. The NFL and the Packers pow-wowed. Bretty giggled, so happy with the attention. Halitosis be damned...this was what he wanted and needed. The world is watching Bretty again!! Oh joy!! Lookit me!! No!! LOOK AT ME!!
It came to a head this week. Bretty met with the Packers, and after half a day or so with the coach, he came out in near-tears, rejected and dejected, hugged a random security guard, because, goshdarn it, sometimes random hugging heals the hurt soul, and sped off in his SUV (good environmental message for the kids). The Packers had remained committed to moving on. The security guard purportedly said 'Don't touch me with your loser cooties, nutlog!!'. Just kidding...no one is crazy here, folks.
It was a bad break up. We have all had them. Where we go begging to be taken back, but the significant other just doesn't want us because we said 'yes, that dress does make your mom's butt look big', or because we forgot their birthday, or because we would not allow their mother to open-mouth kiss us during the family Christmas party, causing her self-esteem issues. I mean, they just can not forgive and forget....hello, Dewars?. Even when you find solace and redemption in a respectable religion with a servant-shoving preacher's wife, and clean up your act, they selfishly just can't forget the pain you caused them. Moved on, my ass, what about me?
Um, back to Bretty. As with any breakup, he rebounded and landed in bed with the first team to tell him he was pretty. Pretty Bretty, said the Jets, come here. Bretty did not say sleep on it, either...he went right to the Jets. But, you can see the pining in his eyes in the picture below...
This picture says so much that Bretty can not find the words for, because he plays football, not writes (or apparently reads) books. His eyes and stricken smile are very emotive. They say...I miss you and I will always love you, Bretty proclaimed, my beloved Packers. I hurted my heart-hole and I bleeded out my sad-hole. But I want you to be emotionally healthy. I want to be emotionally healthy. Right now, the Jets want me, and my heart must go on, even if I want to stay by your side and love you forever.
And that is all I wanted...was to to be wanted by you.
Good luck, Bretty. As a dear friend once told me when I changed jobs under trying emotional circumstances similar to yours, Bretty.... (My response to my friend William? "Cram it, and keep your crappy coupon for a free Whopper."
' Now cracks a noble heart.
Good-night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!'
Oh screw it, Bretty, good luck with your next retirement.
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