Team Building

So Chilly decides that the "cornerstones" of his offense need to get along better. I'm not sure what his deal was - I think I get along fine with everyone. (That is, as long as everyone knows who's in charge.) So he takes me and "All Day" out for a paintball outing.

Which begs the question - if his name is Adrian Peterson, his initials are A.P., right? So why the hell is his nickname All Day? I mean, MY initials are B.F. - which stands for "Best Footballer." His nickname should be "Allows Points," or something, right?

So, if you know anything about me, it's this. I like to hunt. Birds, deer, squirrels, chipmunks - whatever. Guns? I got 'em. Camo? I got that too. I've got ATV's, 4x4's, 6x6's - you name it - I got it. I have experience in outdoorsy stuff. I figure I'm going to rock this. Maybe I'll go pro. There IS a professional paintball league, isn't there? Readers - please help if you know of something, ok?

We get out in the woods, get suited up, and get matched up with some yahoos from Brooklyn Park. Nice enough guys, but they smelled like asparagus. It was weird.

They start the first round, and we scatter. I head for the tree line, and wait.

I'm sensing movement to the north.
I wait.
I see the tall grass move in an unnatural way.
I wait.

Then, from the tall grass, a figure emerges. I take aim, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, and squeeze the trigger...

I shoot Adrian. (Just another example of someone NOT following the play I call. He was NOT where he was supposed to be.)

He starts crying like Warren Sapp. Seriously. He's laying in the dirt, with these big tears rolling down his cheeks, sobbing like a damn 4 year old.

So Chilly runs over to him, cradles him in his arms, and says, "It's ok Ade - everything is going to be all right."

So I shot Chilly just on principle.

I can't stand whiners and crybabies.

His initials are A.P., right? How about "Always Pussing?"

Agents...

As everyone pretty much knows, my Agent is Bus Cook. People always ask me, "Brett, Why Bus? Why not Rosenhaus?"

Drew Rosenhaus is the MAN when it comes to sports agents. He just is. They based that Tom Cruise movie on him. (OK, not the Tom Cruise pantywaste character, but the Jay Mohr, shark character - you know who I'm talking about.)

Anyway - After I left Green Bay, I decided I was going to give Rosenhaus a shot. He wouldn't have had to do a whole lot, just make sure that I was able to feed Deanna & the girls. Pretty simple, right? Oh yeah - he also had to get me a gig in a Polka band. I don't know why - but I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the polka. It's beautiful.

Back when I was 13, I begged my parents to let me take Austrian Trumpet lessons. Dad didn't want to hear it. He coached football, and that was what I was going to do. Period. End of discussion.

That was fine, until college. I found a little trumpet school just outside of Hattiesburg, and went there after my classes. I got pretty good. Good enough, where I almost decided NOT to enter the draft. Dad would have killed me.

So anyway - to make a long story short, Bus made it happen, and Drew didn't. Here's a picture. I made Bus sit in for the picture holding the flute.


He's a decent enough guy, but after I signed with Minnesota, he stopped banging the accordionist sitting front center.

You don't want to know what THAT cost me.

Not funny...

I just got this sent to me from someone in Green Bay.

My legal team will be in contact shortly.

For the love of money...

So today is payday. Good deal. Then it occurs to me, I don't have a bank up here. Yeah - I know what you're thinking. Direct deposit? Debit cards?

That doesn't work for Brett Favre.

I'm certainly not going to trust a million dollar deposit traveling across phone lines. I mean, lightning strikes all the time. Drunk drivers. Overzealous snowplow drivers. Phone lines go down.

Can you even imagine the mess that would happen if someone veered off the road, and hit a phone pole just as my deposit was going through? All that cash would spill out all over the road, and there'd be mass hysteria. People slamming on their brakes to get out of their cars to pick up some of my money... Crazy stuff. If even one child got hit by one of those cars, I'd never forgive myself. Never.

I love children. Truthfully - I believe that they're our future. We should teach them well, and let them lead the way. But I digress.

So I walk into Wells Fargo Bank this afternoon, and slap my check on the counter. Sheila (pictured above) looks at the check, and her false teeth drop out. She grabs them off the counter, and asks if I have an account. I do not. She suggests I open one. Initially, I decline. Then I figure - what the hell. She asks me to sit down, and wait for a personal banker.

Stuart comes over, and asks me to come to his office. After some paperwork, a video chat with his kids, and pictures with the bank employees, I've got myself a checking account. Sweet.

They love me so much up here, then even game me an mp3 player. It's super cool. I have no idea how they fit the tape in this thing, or how I get it out - but it's awesome. I guess it holds something like 2 hours of music. Seriously!

Guess who's going to be the envy of the locker room on game day.

Yeah - that's right. #4. As always.

Dinner

As I tweeted last night, I was in the mood for real authentic Italian food. As far as I know, there's no better place for that, than the Olive Garden.

Where else can you go and get Alfredo sauce that tastes like it was flown in from Tuscany? Seriously people. I know it's kind of on the upper end of the priciness scale - but save your money, and treat yourself to a little taste of heaven.

I get there around 6:30 last night, and a hostess named Jeanne told me that I'd need to wait 55-65 minutes. Apparently, she didn't know who I am. Strange. She must not own a TV. I asked for the manager, and a large, physically unattractive man named Russell came out. Russell owns a TV. I was immediately shuttled to the back section of the restaurant, and seated in the corner.

Interesting fact about Brett Favre. I always sit in a corner, with my back toward the rest of the place. That way, nobody sees my face. I get left alone, and TMZ doesn't get a picture of my with food in my mouth. It's a win-win for me.

Anyway, after about 5 minutes, my waiter - though I guess you have to call them "servers" now - comes over, and gives me a complimentary glass of the finest wine in the house. Principato something-or-other. When Brett Favre is happy - everyone is happy.

Truth be told, I'm not really a fan of wine. I'm more of a tequila shot guy.

As always, I order the tour of Italy. It's a vacation for your taste buds. Fettucini alfredo, Chicken Parmesan, and Lasagna. If you can scrape up the cash, I highly recommend it. I realize that not everyone is the same tax bracket as me. Trust me, it's worth it.

I finish my dinner, and once again, Brett Favre is nourished. The thing that you need to know about Olive Garden, is that their chefs go through years of culinary training. It's as if they pick the "chosen ones" at birth. How else can you explain the consistency of their food from restaurant to restaurant.

The food was perfect - it's as if I was back in Hattiesburg. Swear to God.

Chiefs

It's always nice to win a game - preseason, or not.

From a personal standpoint, I think I was in Pro Bowl form. I dropped back well, scanned the field well, and delivered the missiles that I always do.

Now, if I could just get these no-names to actually catch the ball - we'd be in business.

It's incredibly tough being the most gifted player in the NFL. People always expect that you can take everything on your back, and deliver week after week. After last night's win - It's obvious that's true.

Great players do great things. I think I proved that again last night.

Payback...

I guess this is what happens when you hang up on John Madden.

Unbelievable.

The Mall of America

So check it out. I had to take Deanna into the city last night. You need to know that all the stuff I spew about coming back because of my kid crying, my love of the game, the camaraderie, blah blah blah - it's all bullshit. Total and complete bullshit. Don't tell Bradshaw, k?

It's all Deanna. It's ALWAYS been Deanna. I kinda owe her.

The indiscretions, the vicodin, the college binges, the road trips, the back room at a bar named "O'Danny's," - I could go on, but you pretty much get the gist.

Athletes are given special treatment. Period. We get into clubs first. We get sponsorship deals. (speaking of which, Wranglers kinda irritate my ballsack - shhh!) We get scouted out of college, where we're kings of the campus. Agents visit us, and shower us with everything. Cash, cars, women, booze - you name it. We get it. Then we're drafted, and we're shuttled to our new town. We're treated like kings there too. It's tough on you. (Ya right!)

If you have success, you're glorified more. If you bring a franchise back from extinction, and win a Super Bowl - hell, you're canonized. With all of the accolades, comes even more cash.

Oh yeah - I forgot. Deanna.

Deanna loves cash. She loves counting it, folding it, ironing it, and even bathing in it. She loves spending it more though. She says that it's her payment for staying with me through everything.

So I take her to the Mall of America last night. She goes completely apeshit. Every fucking store. American Express loves me. Visa loves me.

Here's a secret - or maybe not. I hate shopping. Despise it. Personally, I think that because of who I am - people should just send me stuff gratis. I mean, I'm pretty much a white Oprah. What I wear, people buy. (Look at all the morons still wearing #4 jerseys from the Jets or Packers.) You want your product to take off? Give it to me. I'm serious.

Anyway - while Deanna was shopping, I hung out at Legoland. Fucking sweet.

Before you say it - I know. The shorts suck. Another penance I have to pay for dragging Deanna, as she puts it, "Through hell and back."

Again - Whatevs.

Joe Heller: Cartoony Douche

Thanks Joe Heller, from the Green Bay Press Gazette, for this wonderful cartoon.

You know Joe - if you were any good at drawing stuff, you'd have your own show on PBS, and an awesome permed hairdo.

Addendum: Look HERE for Good 'ol Joe's facebook page. Yeah man - you're a real Favre-hater, aren't you??

I love how all these hicks from Wisconsin are treating me like their red-headed stepchild now. I know that it kind of sucks for you guys that I'm gonna beat your team twice a year - at least for this year, but you have to look at this a different way. Look at it from MY point.

Let's say you start working at The Green Bay Bratwurst Company sweeping the floor. You bust your ass, week in and week out, and you become the best bratwurst worker in the world. Then suddenly the GB Bratwurst Company decides that they don't want you to stuff bratwurst for them anymore - so they sell you to the New York Brat Factory. Whatevs.

You go to New York, and while your greatness is overshadowed by a nasty casing allergy you have, you still put up respectable bratwurst numbers. They're appreciative that you've restored some sense of pride to their company, but you're not totally happy, so you ask them to let you go. They KNOW that as far as bratwurst goes - you're the shit - so they keep you happy, and oblige.

You're chilling at home one day, when the Appleton Bratwurst Company calls. They love you. They know what your skills are in the bratwurst world. They want to hire you. And pay you well.

Fuck yeah you'd jump at the chance.

I mean shit - it's only bratwurst.

John Niyo: Media Douche

Check THIS out. It's from the Detroit News.

I mean - I know that the Lions are hardly news-worthy, but seriously?

I swear - the more you media douchebags keep trying to beat me down, the more I rise to the top.

Ya see - I'm like that one turd in the toilet that refuses to go down. You can flush all you want, but I'll still be there, staring back at you, saying, "What?"

...or something.

Twitter

Being from Mississippi, technology isn't exactly at the forefront of our minds.

I've been doing this twitter thing for a couple of days now - and it's really pretty interesting.

So do yourself a favor - follow me, or whatever they call it.

Click here.

Chilly

Seems a lot of folks are curious why I refer to Brad Childress as "Chilly."

Some think that I call him that because we have this great relationship, I'm comfortable with him and his staff, yadda yadda yadda...

The reality is this.

Chilly may have the title of Head Coach - and Zygmunt Wilf (More on that name later.) may own the team, but let's be honest - There's no doubt who's in charge in Winter Park.

C'mon - think about it.  Chilly says, "We want you Brett, but you have to come to training camp."

Yeah Right.

Then he's all like, "We still want you Brett - but we need you to work out with the team."

Again - Yeah right.

So then I go, "You know what?  I'm tired.  I'm not 110%.  I'm not sure my heart is in it.  I'm retired.  For good this time.  Seriously.  I mean it."

Everything in Wisconsin is drowned out with the loudest collective exhale you've ever heard.

But wait.  BOHICA, bitches!

I change my mind.  Which isn't necessarily true, as I ALWAYS knew I'd come back.  I just like showing EVERYONE who's in charge.

It's not Chilly.  It's not Wilf.  Shit - it's not even Goddell.  (Who's wife is SMOKING HOT - trust me on that.  Look her up.  Met her back in the day when the Packers played in Milwaukee.  I'm not saying that I hit it - but I'm also not saying that I didn't.)

So anyway NFL, NFC, NFLPA - everyone...  Know your role.  I'm running shit here, just like always.

And I can take THAT to the bank.  (12 million times, in fact.)

Yet another douchebag...

Read THIS from Gene Wojciechowski @ espn.com.

Nice name, douchebag. If my Momma named me after that dude from Barney Miller - well, I don't know WHAT I'd do.

Anyway - suck it - you media douche.

Douchebag Numero Tres. Jeff Pearlman

Read here, and remember one word.

Douchebag.

Peter King is ALSO a douchebag

Peter.

Dear Peter.

You are a douchebag.

After writing THIS, you can forget getting another interview with me.

Shawne Merriman is a douchebag

Read this from the LA Times. Pay close attention to the last three paragraphs.

OK Shawney. I get it. You're the big man in San Diego. Congrats on that.

The thing you have to understand is this:

I'm the big man in the NFL.

It's really a pity you're not coming to Minneapolis this year.

It's also a pity that off the juice, you're literally HALF the man you are ON the juice.

Another phone call...

The theme from Rawhide (my ringtone) bursts from the darkness, waking me from my nap.

Yeah - I said it. "My nap." What do you want from me? I'm old. I'm not used to this athletic stuff anymore. I didn't do shit last year in New York. I mean, for real.

Didn't.

Do.

Shit.

If you remember my last few years in Wisconsin, I didn't do shit then, either.

Ya see - being Brett Favre means never having to do anything - ever. Once a week, I wake up a little earlier, eat a smaller breakfast than usual, drive to a stadium, and get paid - big money - to play a kids' sport.

I throw, they catch. Period. I make up some shit, yell it out, drop back, and throw.

I don't scramble. (You're welcome Michael Strahan.)

I don't sneak.

I don't bootleg.

I throw.

Shit. I missed my phone call.

Phone Call

So I'm chilling in Eden Prairie - in this little shitbox hotel, actually, and my phone rings.

When you're me, your phone is always ringing - it's not a new thing. But then I looked at the caller ID. Oh shit.

I thought about letting it go to my already full voicemail, but figured I'd have to take this call sooner or later. So I pick up, and give my usual, "This is Brett - Go."

"Brett? Is it really you? Hey asshole, JM here. What in the name of Curley Lambeau's ghost is going on? You're a Viking?"

"No man. The Vikings are Brett. It's a natural progression."

"Brett. You promised. You told me over dinner. You said it was over. You promised we'd both leave the game together, singing "Goodnight Saigon," by Billy Joel."

"Wasn't in the cards, man. I've gotta feed my family."

"Brett - you've got enough money to feed Uruguay - stop the bullshit."

With that, I hung up.

John Madden irritates me. I mean, I've had people be enamored with me before. I mean really - look at me. I'm a fucking god. I own every passing record imaginable. I probably DO have enough cash to feed Uruguay - wherever that is. Who wouldn't want me? But getting this kind of a man-crush for what - 15 years? It's getting a little old.

I've told you Johnny. I'm not into dudes. Let it rest.

Time to get PAID!!!

You have to love the marketing guys that Roger has over there...

They're already selling my stuff. I've been on the ground less than 24 hours, and BAM - buy my stuff, bitches!

I pretty much single-handedly owned all of the Jets' merch sales last year. (But seriously - who wants Jets jerseys anyway...)

Now as long as Adrian keeps himself in check, I should do the same up here.

It's good to be the king.

Now when do I get my money?

Minnesota...

Man... It feels great to be back.

I just wish it wouldn't have cost me ten grand to buy #4 from John.

By the way - what the hell kind of last name is "Booty," anyway?

It kinda sounds like a gay pirate.

Welcome to #3 man. Enjoy holding for the long snapper.

Long snapper. That kinda sounds gay too.