Brett Favre - My Fake Diary

Thursday, 19 January 2012

 Saturday 15th October - Third Saturday in October - Moon by Duncan Jones

Woke at half past ten. Hooray, it's the weekend I thought. I can do all the pleasurable, inconsequential things that are frowned upon during the working week. I ran downstairs and into the yard, attached a buggy to Breleigh's pony and drove it into town, whereupon I shouted "Yee-haw!" a lot, swigged from a flagon of moonshine and danced a little jig.

When I got home Deanna was laying a long table on the porch. "What's occurin', sweetheart?" I said, still a little giddy from the moonshine. It's the Superbowl reunion lunch, you brain-dead moron she replied, tartly. Oh yes, I thought. Once a year I invite all my team-mates (and other important attendees) from that wonderful night in N'Orleans to my home for some chow and remeniscing. It's the only highlight of my drab, meaningless existence. I went upstairs and filled a medium-sized bucket with my tears, then I changed and returned downstairs to greet my guests.

Each year those remaining from the Superbowl triumph dwindles and this year only Doug Evans and one of half-time entertainers ZZ Top showed up. Doug filled me in with the latest news; Desmond Howard had been killed in a gas station shoot-out, Dorsey Levens had disappeared during a cable television ghost hunt, Mark Chmura had been gored to death by a runaway herd of antelope, and Field Judge Phil Luckett had become Prime Minister of New Zealand. They all sent their apologies. We ate our meal in silence, I jammed briefly with the ZZ Top guy and then I escorted them off the property.

In the afternoon I went down to the creek wearing my battered straw hat. I did a bit of fishing (two catfish, one blowfish, one luminescent sea anemone) and then floated down towards the delta on my wooden raft. Time stood still, the river grew wider and wider, I drifted along thinking about glories gone and the great, gaping void of the future and eventually I was rescued by the coast guard again. As the helicopter winched me down into the yard Sgt. Dearborn shouted to Deanna, "Has he got a death wish?" I've got all five, I thought, suddenly enthused. Brittany bought them for me in a box set. I hurried to the video nook for some good ol' gung-ho Bronson retribution.

At bedtime, as Deanna tucked me in, she suddenly said, "Are you happy, Brett?" Why wouldn't I be, I replied. I have a wonderful wife, wonderful kids, an enormous farm, thirty-seven tractors, all the Wrangler jeans I can wear (ker-ching!), the adoration and respect of the nation. I have it all. When she turned off the nightlight I took Jim Beam out of the bedside cupboard and cried myself to sleep again.