Brett Favre - My Fake Diary

Monday, 23 January 2012

Sunday 30th October - Fifth Sunday in October - Moon River

Was awakened at twenty past ten by Conchita nuzzling my neck and licking my face. I pulled her roughly on to my chest and began frenziedly slapping her face, right then left, faster and faster till she eventually yelped and bounded back to her basket at the bottom of the closet. They love it!

I arrived at the traditional Favre Family Halloween Brunch in the barn a few minutes late. The "uncles" who show up every week but whom nobody knows were already face-deep in their sausages as usual. Deanna and the girls were spoonfeeding an unfamiliar baby in a highchair. My adopted problem child, Lawrence Taylor, was gnawing at a chicken leg and fondling a breast. I took my position at the head of the table and all heads bowed as I said a prayer, winding up with the usual rhythmic, table-long chant of "Bus...bus...bus..." as the great agent rose slowly from his subterranean lair playing with his organ.

I checked my messages. Twenty-nine from Sparano, seven from Pete Carroll, and Carroll had also sent me an air-mailed letter asking if I had any idea in the world what Tarvaris Jackson was saying. I couldn't help him, never understood a word in two years. I remember that Chilly once produced a Gangsta Rap translation guide and so I suggested he get in touch with him. I gave Pete the number of the Minneapolis Seamans Mission.

At 6pm I headed down the drive for the traditional, short, amiable bout of toss and catch with the truck driver from Wrangler (ker-ching!) who delivers my new monthly batch. Except that this week he wasn't there and there were no new jeans. That's strange, I thought. I rang Bus. Yeah, he said after a pause, they've renegotiated. Apparently I'll get two pairs of comfort-fit jeans and an XXL brown suede waistcoat every three months in exchange for a strictly above-waist video link appearance at the retail salespeople's convention. That's disappointing.

At sundown I was in my battered straw hat, laying in a hammock and petting a chipmunk when Brittany came outside and sat on the grass beneath me. "Are you tense dad?" she said. I'm getting increasingly perplexed by all the enquiries about my mental wellbeing. I looked over the side at her. Why do you ask, sweetie, I said, a mite testily. Because that hammock isn't attached to anything, she replied.


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