Brett Favre - My Fake Diary

Monday, 30 January 2012

Thursday 1st December - First Thursday in December - Moon on a Stick

Woke at eight-thirty with Bus hissing in my ear. Get down to the High School, he was hissing. There'll be a local telly crew from Chicago there. I trotted over to the denim repository and carefully selected a pair of jeans with just the right amount of insoucient wrinkling and two hours later I was down at Oak Grove directing some fumbling idiot kids on short crossing routes. I was seething about their incompetence when the Chicago crew grabbed me for an interview and I likened their performance to that of the dim-witted Viking dumbos I had to coax into position during my time in Minnesota. As they packed up their gear Bus gave me the evil eye. What's the problem, I shrugged. Surely my impatience with everyone else's failings is part of my legendary charm?

Got home just after twelve and took a snooze under a shady plane tree. The bluebirds twittered around my battered straw hat, Brittany brought me a hot chocolate milkshake and a caramelised lobster hoagy (what does the kid get taught at that cookery school?), I thought that my reference to birds twittering would confuse younger readers so maybe I should change that anecdote in FAVRE!, I dreamed briefly and confusingly of Sterling Sharpe parading up and down in a frilly white basque.

Snapping that disconcerting image, I considered my legacy as I seem increasingly to do these days, with the big white letters LEGACY up on a hill, Hollywood style. The L was a little discolored, grey even, the middle strip of the A was hanging down, detached from one side, and as I watched the Y tottered sideways and tumbled down the hill.  I leapt up, scattered the bluebirds and the hoagy, and ran into the house, up the stairs and into the "nerve center" as I call the cupboard where I store my old Apple Mac. I googled Favre and read what was being said about me. Half an hour later I came out shaking and went for a lie-down.

Deanna came in and lay down beside me. "What's the matter, Brett?" she enquired, gently. When did I become a joke, I asked in reply. She took hold of me and I began to sob, at first softly, then more loudly and insistently, and eventually I was wailing and thrashing around like that kid in Exorcist, an image accentuated by my having my face painted by Breleigh in Packer green. Deanna slapped me hard and stunned me into the moment. You're Brett freakin' Favre, she shouted, and don't ever freakin' forget that! Yes, I thought. Yes I am! I'm Brett freakin' FAVRE! And no, I can't ever forget that. It's a never-ending nightmare.


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