So you’re sitting there, watching your movie, and it’s getting to the really good part.  Heavy breathing, you know the deal.  And suddenly, the video cuts to a commercial about corn flakes.  No explanation, no apology.  Just a bunch of uh, momentum, wasted.

That’s what this $20 million over 10 years offer to Brett Favre to not play football sounds like to me, and now I’m pissed.  I want the money shot.  Or maybe more accurately, I want the car wreck.  This thing has been building and building since March (c’mon, deep down we all knew Favre was jerking our monkeys even then); a hose carrying brake fluid to the right front is loose, another car has a small puncture in the fuel tank.  Speeds are higher than is safe for this track, and tires are melting on the asphalt like popsicles in summer.  There’s gonna be a wreck, baby, and I want to see it.  We’ve come this far, we’ve gasped in fear at the prospect of something horrible happening to our franchise, to our fandom.  And with the reports of today, that the Packers are in fact shopping Favre’s services to NFC North teams, I’m now all. in.  I have a morbid fascination now, like the 328 cars that slow down to 3 miles per hour on the highway when they see an accident; not to help, not to drive safely through, but to crane their necks in the hope of seeing someone’s intestines sprayed on their windshield, the grey matter of their brain gumming up the spinning of their alternator.

I too want to see guts.  I want to see Favre in purple.  Or black (Navy, whatever).  I want there to be 15 round slugfests at Lambeau and the Metrodome (or Soldier Field) this year, with cracked knuckles and bloody knees, team emblems gouged from helmets and missing teeth.  I want the hallucination of Ray Nitschke clotheslining a guy running up the middle.  I don’t even care who wins.  I just want it to be mean and ugly.  Give it to me, Brett.  Scramble to daylight like you haven’t done in six years and take that bladder-releasing hit from an old teammate you used to embarrass in practice.  Let one more Hail Mary fly into the arms of (uh, Robert Ferguson?) a receiver, releasing the ball at the very last second, just before KGB or Kampman rounds the corner and plants your dick in the dirt.

I’m done worrying about how ugly this is going to get.  This is ugliest.  Brett’s managed to make this the ugliest fan scenario a single football player has ever created.  So now I want to see it.  Show me, Brett.  You wanna get nuts?  Let’s get nuts.

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