The Brat Saga

I'll be the first to admit that back in the hay day, I was the blindest Brett Favre fan in the world. The man could do no wrong through my Green and Gold colored glasses.


Vicadin? So what, he is a fucking iron man who plays with broken toes, he needs it. Most interceptions in NFL History? Yeah, well what stat is he not the leader in? Frankly, I think it's more impressive that he played long enough to throw those picks, and managed to throw that many and keep a job. 2005, 2006, 2007 he creates a circus by going back and forth with retirement, leaving everyone hanging? No problem, the guy is a legend. I want him back, of course, he's an icon, but if he doesn't, that's ultimately his decision. Retired in 2008, and decides to come back after all? Okay, fine, he can still play, he has that option.

Wait. Rewind that for a second.

It's not fine. He didn't just call it quits, he held a press-conference, cried his eyes out, and created an emotional ruckus. Merely months later, he change his mind; but it's not as simple as it sounds. He passive-aggressively pussy-footed around the matter. He's an attention whore who wanted to be asked to returned, he wanted to be fawned over, he wanted the press on his lawn. So he did what any self-respecting 12-year old would do, and sent out some text messages to stir the rumor mill.

So the circus begins. Favre wants back in, the fans are split down the middle, and Ted Thompson says he can come back, but only to battle for the starting position. I don't blame Ted, he didn't have a good alternative option. How was he suppose to let Rodgers, his guy, the guy he drafted, his golden boy for the future, be left hanging again? He gave him the keys to the car, he couldn't take them away, give them to a 40 year old quitter, and crush Aaron's confidence and trust again. This, of course, is without mentioning that at this point in their respective careers Rodgers would more than likely be the better QB (as he was).

Favre gives Ted a big "fuck you" when he realizes he's not immortal. He asks for his release, and transforms into Broadway Brett, who has a very good beginning of the season. But then it starts to happen, his age catches up on him. He throws out his shoulder, tears a rotator cuff, and has an abysmal second half of the season. You could attribute the Jets missing the playoffs to Mangini's decision to trust Favre down the stretch.

Make it two years in a row that Brett crushes his team's Championship Dreams, and two years in a row that Favre ends the season in a tear-jerking retirement. You had your last hoo-rah, you proved you can't withstand your age, and you proved that you're an interception machine when it matters most. Let's just forgive and forget, all is well in Packer Nation, all is well in Favre Nation.

The Ultimate Ringmaster is nothing without his final act. Not to say I believe it will be his final act, but to say that I'm not in disbelief that this has happened. In usual Favre fashion, waffling, letting things leak to the press, manipulating the media and team, skipping out on training camp because he didn't want to go, officially retiring...again, and putting on a good ol' boy facade to clear himself of blame and ingeniousness. He has crossed the enemy lines, donned the purple helmet, and is ready to do battle with the team that cherished him for the better part of the last two decades.

So he jets into the Twin Cities, in a fake down to earth outfit consisting of some Wranglers, an old T-Shirt, and a dirty baseball cap. He clearly "just hopped off the tracker". Bullshit. This guy is just so fake, and so good at it. He is a devious manipulator who is extremely underrated in the field of intelligence. He acts as if he just has an innocent love for the game and would like to continue playing, when in actuality he just wants to derail Ted Thompson for giving him the cold shoulder by beating the Packers, crushing their playoff hopes, and ultimately running him out of town (don't count on any of them). Favre playing for all the wrong reasons is just pitiful, and frankly, extremely conceited and selfish. He is hurting himself, his legacy, his fans, Packers fans, Viking fans, Sage Rosenfels and Tarvaris Jackson, his family, Brad Childress, and everyone else involved. Yet, he just doesn't seem to fucking care.

I'm not even sure if he fully understands the situation when he makes outrageous comments like "The true Packer fans will understand." Are you fucking kidding me? That either means one of two things. 1) I am not a true Packer fan, because I don't understand. Or 2) I am a true Packer fan, and therefore do understand. You're not giving me many options here, Brett. So I check-raise with this hand, "A true Packers player would understand why we don't." Beat that logic you dim, southern fuck.

Jesus is that offensive. Assuming we're not real fans because we don't support you. Which really, makes close to no sense, because you're not the Packers, nor do you play for the Packers, so I don't see the relevance. Being a Packer fan is not synonymous with being a Favre fan, despite most people falling under both categories.

I've been writing this on an off for three days, time to wrap this the fuck up.

So now we're to this season. Favre has effectively skipped the training camp he obviously didn't want to go to, and will be playing in his first preseason game tomorrow. Which may seem short notice, but it's really not because he has 17+ years experience, and he knows this Packer-like West Coast offense to a tee. He better get his reps in effectively though, because there's no way he is healthy or in playing shape, and the season opener is just around the corner.

And on opening day he better be at the top of his game, because he has tailored some big shoes to fill. His only option for the season is to win the Superbowl or Bust. It will be bad enough when he doesn't do anything against the gnarly Packer secondary besides throw a couple of horrible picks. But if he doesn't win that Superbowl, which c'mon, we all know he doesn't have it anymore and won't do it, he and Chilly are under huge heat. Chilly risked his whole team's trust, his integrity, and his job just to suck Favre's dick in the locker room. Favre on the other hand, will tarnish his legacy even further, hold an "aw shucks" news conference and "retire" again, go back home to play some two hand touch with his inbred cousins with the media tears him apart, and teams will be pressured not to sign him next year when he comes back because they don't want the circus or scrutiny.

With all due respect, I hope he doesn't have a terrible year or makes a mockery of himself. I just hope he falls on his face against the Packers, and doesn't get those purple faggots into the playoffs. And then, once he actually retires, formally apologizes to Packer fans, and puts his arm to rest, I'll revert to backing The Icon.

P.S. Better make your reservations to Favre's Steak House now, I heard it's going to be bustling this season.

It's About That Time

V-V-V-V-V-V-V-down-set-hike.

Madden 10 hasn't even dropped yet, and me and Ben have already accumulated a pocket-full of instant-laugh memories. From me proceeding a 3rd and 28 conversion with screaming "Bitches on the Prowl!" for absolutely no reason; to Ben getting sacked, throwing his head back in disbelief, destroying it on a lamp, and then throwing a pick; to making ridiculously hyperbolic statements about players, i.e.: Brandon Jacobs has never been tackled, he has only gotten sick of scoring.

If this is any sort of sample of what is left to come, than I can justify how fucking giddy I am about the release tonight, and the inevitable weekend decimated in its wake.

Luckily, we're not going in blindly. As fucking ridiculous and nerdy as it is, me and Ben made a Madden Weekend Itinerary the other night. Starting with the Release Party at GameStop tonight, to the day-long practice session tomorrow, and ending with the Wal-Mart Madden Tournament on Saturday. Mix in some Lost, food, and minimal sleep, and you have a recipe for success.

Apart from me winning the tournament Saturday, I also have one to win next Saturday at GameStop, except that one is much more important, and much more legit. And whereas most people wouldn't take it lightly, I will, because I'm actually that good.

Talking shit online. Button mashing. Get pissed off at your friends. Being overly competitive. Staying up way too late. Wasting too much time. Squeezing in just one more. Throwing controllers. Eating horrible food. Frying your eyes. Magical.

Let it fucking commence.


P.S. Jesus Christ that post was horrible. Just, wow. I'll try and write something decent later.

"Bon Appetit!"

Yesterday, as a part of Margo's going away party, her, Ben, and I joined a hundred grey-haired movie enthusiasts for another Meryl Streep knockout.

Julie & Julia

The movie is an adaptation of the same-named book, which follows the story of Julie Powell's (Amy Adams) life and blog about cooking her way through Julia Child's (Meryl Streep) cookbook, while integrating the story of Julia Child's adult life and rise to fame. It's much easier to follow than it sounds, as Nora Ephron does an excellent job mixing the stories of two American women who begin struggling to find excitement and meaning in their livies. But with the help of their respective supporting husbands, both women manage to find bliss.

Several natural laughs and over-the-top accents later, the film boasts great messages about life and finding success. It embodies the true lesson that it's never t0 late to find what makes you happy, and even in or after the prime of your life, you can search for, find, learn, and begin the career that suits you best. It's never too late.


For anyone pushing to make a case for an actor's talent proportionally rising with their age, Streep would have to be Exhibit A (with Jack as Exhibit B). It doesn't matter what age she is though, because she has always crushed expectations. She is a juggernaut.


She personifies Julia Child to a tee. Everything from the voice, to the personality, to the appearance is just remarkable. At one point, they show a picture of Julia that forces you to question which woman it actually is.


Ala Greg Maddux, she possesses infectious talent that enhances everyone around her. Alike in Doubt, Amy Adams is stunningly acceptable as a lead actress. She has dropped the tinge of obnoxiousness and replaced it with a touch of confidence that allows her to embody her character. I hope this is a sample of what is left to come from Amy, as Hollywood is in dire need of young, talented actresses. It seems like the pool of talent, for both men and women, has been a bit shallow as of late.


Although the movie is a 2 hours and 10 minutes long, it manages to do what the more recent excessive features have not been able to: keep your attention. At no point was I bored, checking the time, feeling like it was dragging on, or psychologically adding fictitious things to the movie to make it more entertaining. It didn't even give me the opportunity to divert my mind to the terrible stench of old people or considering how much I dislike them.

Really, the only exterior thoughts I had were those of jealously for how rapidly and amazingly Julie's (Amy Adams) blog blew up. If it were not based on a true story, I would've never believed how effortlessly she gained readership. I naively hope that over the course of the next year I can also be nationally covered by newspaper columnists and get offers from literary agents and publishing companies. I'd fucking sell both kidneys for that kind of success.


Assuming you have an interest in blogging, Meryl Streep, cooking, the smell of old people, Amy Adams, Paris, success stories, finding one's true calling, or just quality movies, I'd like to assert a strong recommendation for this delightful film.

That is, if you can stomach the sight of butter-filled bowls for two hours.

(4/5)


P.S. Old people are gross.

4 8 15 16 23 42

Fine, J.J. Abrams, you win you persevering, cheating fuck. I'm Lost.

After giving up Lost directly after Season 2, and for years answering, "Do you watch Lost?" with "Fuck no"s and "I hate J.J. Abrams"es, he has broken my will.

Over the past few times I've stayed at Ben's we've watched Season 1. I did so reluctantly at first but enthusiastically and avidly more recently. The shows is like a cross-fertilization between a car-wreck and a heroin addiction. You don't want to look, you don't want to have to look, but you can't not look.

You don't have a choice, really. J.J. writes it that way on purpose, because writing with integrity would expose the humbleness of his talent and people wouldn't be eager to return to him. He manages to do this in two ingenious, diabolical ways. The first way being to answer every question with 5 more questions. So one question turns into 1 answer + 5 questions, and then 2 answers + 9 questions, and so on until you're dick-deep in a pool of uncertainty. The second reason being that he ends every scene, commercial break, episode, and season in a varying degree of cliff-hanger. This meaning you psychological have no choice but to imperatively watch the following episode, which turns into a perpetually vicious cycle. His cryptic writing style is pure fucking evil.

I do applaud him, however, because he weaves subplots, outrageous story lines, and back stories together as if he has a 6th sense for it. This is, of course, if you can find it in your heart to overlook how mangled and abstract the end product is. He also has a great prevalence to referring back to prior episodes with small details and quirks, making you feel like you're super savvy or a part of the show when you pick up on them. Names and numbers we're not suppose to remember, costume details we can't believe they've stuck to, and several cliches they should get rid of but are fun to keep a tally on (lack of subsequent requests or clarification, vague descriptions accompaniment conflict, horrible coincidences, ect.)

I would congratulate him on his eye for the surreal and paranormal, but I'd be lieing because he tends to ruin the things that start out on a positive note and your expectations are never really met. The twists are never what you wish they would be, which I guess is a plus in the criteria of a twist, but the minus enlies in the disappointment that ensues when the twist becomes apparent. Although, he does throw quite a bit of numerology in there (especially 23, which, if we've learned anything, is atrociously evil), which I dig, but only because of how ludicrous it is.

At this point, if you've been paying attention, I probably seem a bit torn between whether or not I love or hate this show, and that's no mistake in your judgement. It's really just both. I simply love to hate this show. Most of my compliments are insults and vice-versa. I can appreciate how the writing is done on a week to week basis with no planning or foresight, I enjoy how out of hand the story lines and character developments get, and I love the capability to tear it apart and make fun of it from beginning to end.

There is really no debate in whether or not it is entertaining, because it is, which is really the point of a television show, the problem is that Abrams has no grasp for the ethics of writing, making him more of a conman than anything else.


P.S. The twist in Star Trek wasn't the realization of the split universes, it was that J.J. Abrams didn't fuck it up.

False Impressions

Since I've been really fucking lazy lately, I am going to lie for two reasons:

1) I haven't written anything for days, and I really need to get a new post up before this just gets pathetic. Yet, I currently have no ideas, topics, or inspiration.

2) If I say I just begun writing my book, and this is new, than it seems like I manned-up and decided to just write something. It also seems more pressing to read just because it's "new".

Now that the confession is over...

The semi-fictional novel, tentatively entitled 'False Impressions', is a compilation of mostly true, some embellished, stories from my life, carefully woven together to resemble an intriguing story line.

This excerpt equates to a prologue, and will be directly followed by the 1st Chapter. It's purpose is to get the reader introduced to me (the main character) and accustomed to my writing style.

With no further ado...



I look down, the sweat from my brow is making my hair stick to my face. It’s way too fucking hot. My work shirt is a bit too tight, and the ex-hole in my work khakis seems to be dropping the ex. She had patched and sewn it after I tore it on a corner somewhere here or there, but like any repair, it can only last for so long.
The unexpected blaring of previews catches me slightly off-guard. I quickly realize to close the theatre doors, not because it’s my job, but because I hate this commercial.
Arms stretched wide, in a breath-stroke like motion, I put enough pressure on the dual doors until I hear the clicks signify them closing. I collect the broom and handled dustpan that I had discarded in the wall/trash can niche moments before and head down the checkered hallway. Right foot for red square, left foot for black.
When working a weekday shift, there’s no choice but conjure up your best facade. Nothing to do, no one to talk to, only options are to appear busy or duck into a theatre and don’t appear at all. The charade becomes quickly monotonous, I need something productive to do.
“Hi Christian.”
The voice is calm, pretty maybe, but somehow unsettling. This voice strikes me as familiar, I know this voice.
I walk with my head down, not sure why, have never been sure why. I chalk it up as a habit while my mom chalks it up to the length of my hair. Looking up, I struggle to focus for a second, tilt my head slightly to the left, and attempt to use my meager recognition skills.
Names I can do, but faces always take me a bit longer, especially with one contact in. Mrs. Kettle, ninth grade English, sans pregnancy, I don’t remember her without the baby bulge.
“…Hey.”, my voice trails, as if I’m short on words. However, I’m never short on words, so I must be reluctant to be courteous.
“How’re you?” I ask, but she has already disappeared into her theatre.
Mrs. Kettle and I, we’re not friends. To be frank, Mrs. Kettle is a bit of a cunt. She’s one of those teachers who I have a personal rivalry with. It’s for no other reason but because they know I’m more intelligent and they have no business teaching me anything. I remember publicly undermining her at any given opportunity, I guess in attempt to assert my prowess.
I stand there, with the “Hi Christian” lingering in the air, so nonchalant, so pseudo-mature. My eyes turn into peering slits, and I want nothing more but to hate fuck her. Something I had dreamt about it in my days sitting in those uncomfortable desks, listening to her ham-handed lectures, thinking, “Is this the standard they teach at universities now?” It startles me to think about how teachers don’t have to major in their subjects, which leads me to wonder: What are the qualifications otherwise?
Mrs. Kettle has a young, attractive face, bob cut, and a thick body. Not fat, I’d never call her fat, but she’s not a thin woman. The kind of thick like Topanga in her later years on Boy Meets World, the kind you wanted to dig your nails into.
Every man has one, and by one I mean at least one, usually many more. A woman they can’t help but to hate so much that it crosses the line into fatal attraction. You want to fuck her, with complete lack of intimacy. You want to hear her screams and inflict a touch of pain. You get off on the sex, but you really get off on the anger.



I've decided that I am going to do my best to step back up to the proverbial type writer, and continue to peck away at my book. I have put it off for much too long, and if I am ever going to be a successful writer, I must learn a certain discipline and drive for writing my books.

I'll try to throw some more excepts up along the way, but nothing major. It's nearly impossible to get something published that has already hit the internet.

I hope I've seduced you into anxiously anticipating my first novel.



P.S. "This is a memoir, but please understand that (to any good writer with a good imagination) all memoirs are false. A fiction writer's memory is an especially imperfect provider of detail; we can always imagine a better detail that the one we can remember. The correct detail is rarely, exactly, what happened; the most truthful detail is what could have happened, or what should have happened. Half my life is an act of revision; more than half the act is performed with small changes. Being a writer is a strenuous marriage between careful observation and just as carefully imagining the truths you haven't had the opportunity to see. The rest is the necessary, strict toiling with the language; for me this means writing and rewriting the sentences until they sound as spontaneous as good conversation." - John Irving, on Memoirs