I recently became so tired of debating whether to contribute one more mention to the Brett Favre maelstrom in my forthcoming Christmas wish list, in the form of an ‘He. . .should . . . just . . . go . . . a- . . . way!’ request, I snapped.
I went to Minnesota, shoveled all the snow onto one part of the roof, and my plan seemed to work perfectly. There was this deep, muffled zipper sound, and the ground shifted, and then the snow was pouring through the roof onto the field. Enough to stop any quatrogenarian quarterback. I crept carefully towards the opening, and the ground began to move beneath my feet.
I stumbled and fell, and I may have screamed. I clutched out instinctively and caught hold of a seam, as even more snow, literally tons and tons, fell to the playing surface, just where I had calculated they would be at 5pm. Again, and this time more carefully, I crept to the edge of the tear, and looked down.
I imagined for a split second the whole catastrophe, sending a wave of relief across the idol-worshipped-out sportspeople of the world, and then a hand, rising through the snow, and then The Ancient One, somehow intact . . . but there was nothing! Nothing! I climbed down from the ruined stadium, wondering what had gone wrong. When I got to the bottom I looked at my watch. It said 5:45AM. AM! I had set the hotel alarm to get me to the game for 5 in the morning! Who can tell in all that snow?
Anyway, he’s not starting, and I’m sure he’ll go away soon.