The Time I Convinced Brett Favre to Not Retire

Yes, the rumors are true. It was I, who single handedly convinced Brett Favre to play another season for the Green Bay Packers.

It’s kind of a funny story actually.

You see, Brett Favre and I are in regular communicato for pretty much everything. We both have one of those direct red phone systems without any phone numbers on it like the United States and Russia used during the cold war. The only difference is that Brett Favre dominating another season for the Green and Gold has far more repercussions than the prospect of nuclear holocaust.

Normally, Brett Favre and I keep tabs with each other on a weekly basis. He usually just calls for women advice, home improvement ideas, penetrating the Vikings defense, stuff like that; but lately he has been really on edge. I knew he was stressed out on whether or not to play next this year so I kept my distance but I was starting to get a bit perturbed when two months went by without a peep from him.

Finally, last Tuesday, I got a call from the man himself. I picked up the phone, livid at this point that he hadn’t kept me in the loop on his retirement decision. There was all this wild speculation going and I wanted some honest to God answers. I’ll transcribe the conversation verbatim:

Brett Favre: Hey, Ben, it’s me.

Me: Oh…hey, Nancy.

Brett Favre: Ben, c’mon, cut me some slack, I’m under a lot of pressure here. I’m not the same man I was ten years ago. I lead the league in interceptions, my quarterback rating is at an all time low, the…

Me: Yeah, well Dan Marino had a sob story like your too but that didn’t stop him from setting the all time record for passing yards and touchdown receptions. But I guess you don’t care about being better than Dan Marino, do you?

Brett Favre: Well Dan Marino doesn’t have a super bowl ring either, does he?

Me: Sure, you’re right, I guess I didn’t notice that when he was chewing the scenery with Jim Carrey in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. How much more screen time did he have from you again in There’s Something About Mary. I can’t remember because he was basically in the whole movie while you only had a few crappy lines.

Brett Favre: Dan Marino is a hack! That’s it! I’m going to play another season and not only break every one his records but I’m going to win another title for Green Bay. Then I’m going to star opposite of Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson in some new comedy and it’s going to be awesome.

We then got into a heated debate on what song he wanted played when he returned for the home opener of the 2006 season. He thought the Imperial March would be a great way to intimidate the opposing team but he eventually conceded that the Star Wars Theme Song would be more appropriate seeing that he would be the new hope for the Packers claiming the Super Bowl XLI title. At least the decision for him to lead a charge onto Lambeau carrying a sword and riding a white stallion was unanimous.

You see it was me and my cunning use of reverse psychology that prompted Brett Favre to forget about his retirement. I know how to hit him where it hurts. I figure I’ll be using that Dan Marino ruse to keep him playing for at least another six seasons.

You’re welcome, Green Bay.



You can easily trip up Brett Favre's ego by making fun of his performance in There's Something About Mary even though, deep down, I know he's done some of the finest acting performed in Hollywood in probably the last decade.

My Genius Idea: VI ( and some stuff about Ding)

I just wanted to let everyone know that I have received a very positive response from my People that look like Things and Other People post a few months back. It was so successful, in fact, that people are actually starting to refer to Ding as Turk now in his home town of "The Good Land" i.e. Milwaukee.

To mess with my friends is one of the main focuses of this blog. In the spirit of this hazing, I have entered Ding into a contest sponsored my NBC. The hit sitcom Scrubs has decided to let the audience name the future baby of Turk and Carla.

I have submitted a convicing argument to the producers of Scrubs to name the baby "Dingeldein". My case is simple, yet effective. Dingeldein looks exactly like Turk. Case closed. End of Story. You heard it here first.

The Garage
I breathed a heavy sigh as I let the bar down on the squat rack.

I didn’t know how many more repetitions I could handle but I knew I had to continue the farce. I wanted to be in a middle of a set when Aaron returned yonder. The look on his face would be worth all the gold in Eldorado.

Aaron religiously practiced the art of muscle blasting. He has carefully crafted and accumulated many iron oddities to isolate and build muscles in the body that probably remain dormant in most people throughout their entire existence. Anything that deviates from his muscle manufacturing philosophy (like wearing gloves or doing bicep curls) irritates him to extreme measures.

Which is exactly why I was performing quadriceps exercises in the front of my driveway during rush hour traffic. For Aaron, weight lifting was a solo spiritual experience of metaphysics and stamina, not an egregious display of showmanship.

As I expected, he was most perturbed by my utter lack of respect for his equipment. The bird was promptly flipped in my general direction. The sweat factory would never be the same again.

J.Peteman Ideas: Part V

Almost there.

My Old Bedroom
A hint of gasoline tickled my nostrils when I entered the house.

“How odd,” I thought to myself.

Perhaps I stepped in a puddle of petrol when I was refueling my automobile earlier that day. Or perhaps I spilled a bit of gas on my denims when filling the mower at the week’s finale.

All good guesses, but the stringent smell was indeed, a motorized bicycle that someone parked in my bed. It was deliberate.

Oh! How I laughed at the spectacle before me! It was a humorous jest to say the least. Who could have masterminded such a devious prank?

Although Razz was printed on the flank of the jet black moped, it was clearly I who was razzed that day.



Living Room

I proposed a toast to all the gents standing in the parlor.

“To the greatest Christmas in the history of all time.”

I raised my chalice, a sacred relic bequeathed to me from a fair maiden in the employment of a Burger King franchise. The King has exquisite taste. This particular goblet was fashioned in the likeness of Gandalf of Lord of the Rings infamy. The intense mahogany flavor of the Yellow Tail Merlot was accentuated by the glowing scarlet beacon underneath my cup.

I grinned sheepishly as I set down my hearty drink. Donned in our absolute best winter holiday attire, my colleagues and I set out that evening to accomplish one task: to spread yule tide spirit in the form of a Seasons Greetings post card to all our friends and family. The mission was successful and celebration was in order.

The rest of the night was filled with revelry and debauchery as we took in our fill of fine wines and other lagers and ales on the streets of downtown Capital City. Although my memory of that time is hazy, the photograph shall last forever. It was a sublime moment for us all.

J Peterman Ideas: Part IV

This J. Peterman idea is taking longer than I thought but I'm going to keep plowing through anyways because I'm stubborn like that. On a positive note, my ridiculous goggle tan is gone, as you'll notice from my new profile picture. You'll also notice that I'm wearing a shirt in this photograph, because I know people will appreciate that.



Shawn's Old Room (Currently my room)
A mouse scurries across the open. He is blissfully unaware that the skeletons that litter his surroundings were once his friends. Why should he worry? For the time being, the predators were gone.

Two Botswanan boa constrictors, the very same kind of boa constrictors that have terrified the pygmie tribes of Western Zimbabwe for generations, have escaped from their glass cell. The whole upstairs is put on lock down like a prison riot at Sing Sing. If the snakes were loose, it was important to keep them as closely contained as possible.

I muster up all of my courage and begin searching for the fearsome reptiles. It was better to go on the offensive than to be ensnared in the deadly embrace of Shawn’s so-called “pets” when I least expect it. I begin my search by checking the recesses underneath my bed.

I coil in horror as the lethal serpents hiss at me, beckoning my doom if I should approach any further. The language of the parseltongue is ever so subtle, yet excruciatingly terrifying. I yell for back up. Shawn came to my rescue and promptly retrieved the slithering assailants.

I was safe for the time being. I wish I could say the same for the mouse.

J Peterman Ideas: Part III

Hallway
I only had a millisecond to duck. Fortunately, my acute hearing was especially adept at detecting projectiles in mid flight. In this particular instance, the whizzing sound flying directly at my visage was a soft foam dart with a suction cup at the end.

I knew the rocket would leave a welt. I had to act fast. I hurled myself across the hallway into the adjacent room. I heard a distinctive thwack as the dart hit the mirror at the end of the corridor. I was safe. For now.

My heart beating rapidly, I knew I had to retaliate. Grabbing my Nerf firearm, I plunged onto the pine, going commando style down the alley like a newly trained private in his first fox hole. I set up for the kill.

I unleashed my fiery. The shot rang true, hitting my target with the velocity of an arrow fired from a bow by Hercules himself. I would live to fight another day. And Joey would be slightly annoyed for the rest of the afternoon.


Three Seasons Room
Andy stared across the table from me with his cold steel eyes. It was impossible to tell what two cards he was holding his hand.

I look down at the cards in front of me. There’s a queen of diamonds at the end of the pile. I want that. Unfortunately, a hodge podge of singular cards and suites precedes it. Still, a feeling in my gut tells me I’ll draw another queen on the next round and thus complete my three of a kind with the other femme fatale in my hand, the elusive queen of spades. I proceed with the bold gesture, ensuring spectacular victory or crushing defeat.

Andy calmly picked up the top from the card the deck and laid down the remainder of his hand into a small straight. The smirk on his face shames me to this day. I shall never again play another round of cards with Andy “Rummy 500” Copely.

Snakes on a Plane

Hollywood, you’ve outdone yourself again.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the greatest film of all time has been made and all before it has even been released. Casablanca, Citizen Kane, and Godfather II will be just passing memories when Snakes on a Plane gets released on August 18th.

If you haven’t heard about this marvel of movie-making, the film stars Samuel L. Jackson as Neville Flynn, the tough as nails FBI agent that has to escort a mob boss that is going to testify against his brethren. The high concept here, is that someone aboard the plane releases crates upon crates of deadly snakes to silence the witness once and for all. Hysteria ensues.

I, for one, cannot wait for the premiere of this film. I can already sense that Sam Jackson is going to deliver some of the greatest one-liners of all time. I am willing to bet twenty dollars that at the very least, the following quote will be in the movie:

“I’ll TELL you what I think about them snakes. I HATE the mothafuckas!”

Oh my god, I can’t wait for this movie. Snakes on a Plane. This is the reason I chose marketing as a major.

My Genius Marketing Idea: Part II

Main Bathroom
The primary bathroom was once a Spartan marvel of utility and simplicity. That is, until the Siren known as Abbey girl took sole possession of it.

Upon proclaiming the kingdom as her own, she immediately set out to fill every nook and cranny with her cosmetic treasures. Little hand towels and delectable soaps occupied once dormant spaces. It appeared that she had a different hair curler for every day of the week, along with a few extra as spares. Exotic fragrances filled the air, tickling the senses and stimulating the passions of the heart.

Frustration set in, however, when my toiletries were misplaced from their rightful spot. Digging around the shower landscape, I spot my bar of soap and bottle of hair cleanser behind a mountain of feminine lotions and oils that would have made Helen of Troy envious.

Reaching for my bottle of Head & Shoulders, I inadvertently knock over the army of products, spilling their contents along the basin of the tub.

“By the God of Zeus! How much crap do you really need in here, Abbey!?”, I thunder to the Heavens.

The most peculiar, women are, when it comes to bathrooms.


Dining Room
The rain ceaselessly pounded the sides of the house for hours on end. Bored to tears, the fellows and I congregated to assemble a jigsaw puzzle, 500 pieces of mayhem from the classic film, The Empire Strikes Back.

Assembling the cast of motley rebels, the task was all too easy. Luke, Leia, Solo, they all seemed to come alive with each interlocking work of art. Even the nefarious Sith Lord, Darth Vader, with his menacing mask brooding in the backdrop, came together with ease.

But the filler was a different story altogether. The infinite abyss of space and the hulking AT-ST’s in the background created a collage of black and grays that were completely indiscernible from each other. Every remaining fragment of the puzzle seemed to meld together.

We judiciously latched random pieces together. As more and more pieces were assembled, the chore became a rally. We would be triumphant in our goal as order was restored to the galaxy.

But Alas! All hope was lost. Like a bounty hunter trapped in a Sarlac pit, the last piece of the puzzle was gone, never to return.

The wookie would never be complete.

My Genius Marketing Idea

I am planning on putting up my house for sale in the next couple of weeks and I was brainstorming of ways to make my castle more marketable compared to all the other boring shacks out there.

Here's my plan: I'd definately going the For Sale By Owner route, however, I am going to set up another blog similar to this one, loaded with pictures and other data. Where I am really going to stick out, is that I am going to go J. Peterman style expose for every room in the house.

Not only is he is a beloved character from Seinfeld, but the man can move product like none other. In order to keep me motivated on this arduous task, I'm going to post one or two stories every day in the trademark J.Peterman style. It was the Yam Yam.

The Kitchen
One balmy Sunday, late in the summer harvest, my chums and I decided to go and view the latest avant-garde at the local Cineplex.

Unbeknownst to me, I forgot to turn off the stove where I was cooking a nourishing snack of boiled eggs.

You can imagine our horror when we returned to our domicile later that evening. Plumes of smoke had insinuated every crevice of our abode. Bits of shell and egg debris fired out of the pot like the lava and crag from the volcanoes of Mauna Loa Island.

We managed to extinguish the mighty belch of Satan and the smell of petrified albumen and yolk eventually dissipated. But the boiling pot would never be the same again.

Bathroom #2
Joe was a blue collar man, exchanging sweat for currency to pay for his higher education.
Sometimes gone for weeks at a time, working in the trenches was tiring and lonesome for the young patriot.

One fateful evening in July, after an extended bout of grueling labor, Joe returned home with a burning desire to quench his thirst at our favorite brew pub. The first sip of his spirit sent him spiraling off into his adventures of traversing the bogs and marshes of upstate New York. The night was filled with intrigue and suspense as we drank rich whiskey while Joe regaled us with other tales of yester yore.

In the wee hours of that morning, Joe made for the lavatory and never returned. Not a heave was ever heard, but his fall resonated throughout the entire house. Neither prodding nor poking could awake the slumbering fool camped on the bathroom floor.

Joe would arise unperturbed the next morning. His recollection from the previous night was gone. No one would ever know if it was exhaustion or the cocktails that rendered him unconscious.