by Brian

Don’t hate Brett Favre.

Hate yourselves.

Don't hate the playa! Hate the game...You know what? Hate the playa...

It’s not the narcissist’s fault when people gawk.  It’s not the narcissist’s fault when an entire cable network devotes itself to him.  It’s not the narcissist’s fault when people proclaim him savior, anoint him saint, crown him royalty.  And it’s not the narcissist’s fault that we care. 

Look, there are three things Favre wanted out of his trinity of “unretirements”: 

1. More money
2. More notoriety
3. More money

I don’t understand why people get so upset about one man’s self-reflective journey toward any mirror, microphone, or news camera any more than I understand why Bravo seems to take up residence on my television on a daily basis.  The reason my wife can watch an episode of Bethany Getting Married  three times in six hours is the same reason sports fans tune in to ESPN to tune Favre out.  We simply cannot get out of our way.

As a result, I don’t begrudge Favre for wanting to remain the lead story on every SportsCenter.  Nor do I feel like I missed out on anything by boycotting “The Decision.” And I’ll feel no remorse for missing LiLo’s post-prison, one million dollar interview.  I just detach myself from all things sensational in the media, grab a Flying Fish Farmhouse Summer Ale, Youtube live performances from my favorite bands, and fire off hilarious text messages to my long-since annoyed friends. I suggest you do the same because Favre is playing, he doesn’t like training camp, and the Vikes are now the second best team in the NFC (Saints).

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Boo-hoo, Roger Clemens.  What did you think was going to happen? After watching fellow cheaters Rafael Palmeiro (he of the now ironically infamous index finger), Sammy Sosa, and Mark McGwire, each of whom quietly receded into the collective darkness until such time that slime was socially acceptable again, the Rocket decided to emulate OJ in hopes that the verdict would be the same. Sadly, the needle did fit and Congress did not acquit. 

What was I just saying? I misremember...

 Again, as a firm believer and fan of karma, Clemens’ inability to take a page out of his fellow cheater’s, Andy Pettite, handbook will earn him the most coveted of karmic symbols—the asterisk.

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While I’m stuck in a Detroit airport en route to San Francisco with my wife, ten-month old daughter, and mother-in-law, I’ll assure all of our less traveled readers that the Midwest accent is as annoying as it sounds on television.

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From the category of things I don’t get, here’s one: out-of-season-sports-represented-at-in-season-sporting-events.  Case in point—I’m at the Phils game with my buddy Lew, the first of Cole Hamels’ inexplicable two straight 1-0 losses to the Mets, when I saw a plethora of mismatched jersey decisions.  Simon Gagne alternate jersey? Check. Man U home jersey? You bet’cha. Charles Barkley retro, though now current again, red Sixers jersey sans any form of undershirt? Indeed.  I don’t subscribe to the theory that men over the age of 35 shouldn’t wear other men’s jerseys in public (largely because I’m about to turn 34, and I’m a proud owner of the original Favre jersey), but I’m curious how anyone peers into his closet during the dog days of summer on his way to a baseball game and says, ‘Yep, let’s go with the midnight green Todd Pinkston jersey because, hey, the Birds are in camp. E-A-G-L…” You get the point.