Brett Favre - My Fake Diary

Saturday, 28 January 2012

Wednesday 16th November- Third Wednesday in November - Warren Moon

Woke up at half past three. But as I'd only gone to bed at 8am this wasn't as profligately idle as it may have first appeared. I'm not some sort of back-up quarterback folder holder, I'm Brett Favre! The Dolphins deal having gone nowhere the list of truly desperate teams had fallen by a third so I'd put on my battered straw hat and gone night fishin' down at the creek, all a-thinking and a-pondering. When I returned to the house Deanna was still sat up and she made me eggy soldiers and held me tightly. Eventually I said, I think I'll retire. You are retired, she said softly. Oh yeah. That's good then. No need for another visit with that creepy Greta Van Susteran.

Despite my late emergence there was still quite a support group gathered in the kitchen when I got downstairs. A couple of the uncles no-one knows were polishing off a pot of jumbalaya, Brittany had blown up a We Love You Dad balloon and Breleigh had rather superfluously inserted 'STILL' in felt pen, Deanna and my mom were baking me some Mr Potato Head baked potato heads, cousin Auberon was playing his mean country fiddle. I sat down, swigged from a chilled bottle of Miller Genuine Draft (ker-ching!) and heaved a huge sigh. Deanna pushed the John Deere catalog across the table towards me. Go on, she said, you know you want to. I picked it up and somehow it fell open at the very page. I looked around the room. Free tilling attachments, I said. They all nodded.

After I'd ordered the tractor the family drifted away so I took Conchita for a walk through the fields. At the furthest edge of Far Field, as I leant on a five-bar gate chewing on a piece of straw that had become detached from my hat, a sporty looking convertible came roaring up the track, screeched to a halt and a very foxy lady eyed me up and down. I raised my hat and adopted a sophisticated air. "Well howdy, pretty missy," I purred, "we don't normally get folks as lurvely as you this far off the main road. Are you looking for any footballing superstar in particular?"  I flashed my.........3-time MVP medallion. She said, "Do you know which is Fred Smoot's ranch?" I waved back the way she'd come. "It's over there," I barked, grumpily, "but it's not really a ranch......this is a ranch." I indicated behind me but she was already reversing. "His should be correctly called a farmstead," I yelled after the fast retreating vehicle. "And ask him how's his goat?"