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.