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.