It’s Here: “The Phil Comic”

Just as the world threatens to collapse with anticipation, Bill Fuerstenau and Tim Langton today finally released their super-project, “The Phil Comic.” Due to its dense subject matter and the vastness of the themes it covers, the comic is being hosted off site, where you can visit by clicking on this ridiculously large link, made as such just so you don’t miss it.

To whet your appetite and to wet your pants, below is the beautiful artwork done for the cover of “The Phil Comic.” Remember — this is an online exclusivo, es muy caliente, and not available in any store. Not even Fleet Farm! So while you don’t have to pay to indulge in this instant classic, you certainly are welcome to send donations either to Bill and Tim. They will happily take your money and spend it on candy/Packers XLV Super Bowl gear.

As with any serious work of art, this comic book is not made for children and contains foul language, and adult themes and situations. Think “Watchmen,” only more important.

Industry insiders fear that this may overshadow the release of “Super 8,” due out Friday. Obviously, a work of “The Phil Comic’s” magnitude will cut deeply into the market share of any film, book, TV show, family event or hygienic practice, but it remains to be seen exactly how much. Regardless, the people of Earth can finally exhale — “The Phil Comic” is here. Let freedom ring!

Phil Full-Length Trailer unleashed on unsuspecting world

At long last, we have an official release from the Bill Fuerstenau-Tim Langton camp about their new, unhealthily anticipated project. Below is the official, full-length theatrical trailer for their work. Give it a look if you’d like! Although if you’re reading this, you’ve already given me a page view, which is all I really care about.

Wow … just … incredible! The power, the emotion conveyed in that trailer! June 9 can’t come soon enough, even though it’s less than a week away! Keep visiting this site throughout the leadup to the release of “The Phil Comic” for any more updates. It might be smart just to leave it open on your browser and tape down the refresh key until June 9, just to make sure you don’t miss anything.

A hero for all seasons: Phil phinally revealed

After weeks of intense speculation, we have perhaps the firmest clue of the direction of the new project from creative geniuses Bill Fuerstenau and Tim Langton. Another photo has leaked from the project’s camp, where alleged employee abuse/racial discrimination by one or both of the creators (but probably just Tim) has fueled the recent slow bleed of information. This new photo shows the final character design of the purported protagonist, known simply and powerfully as Phil.

Check the jump for the new photo, in case you are too dumb to figure that out yourself.

The dashing Phil, ready for action

A striking creation to say the least. Yet still, questions remain — how will Phil and the recently revealed villain The Spectator cross paths? What powers does Phil have? Why is he drooling? If you haven’t seen it yet (which would make you the lamest person possible), here’s the teaser video for the project, released early last month.

***BREAKING NEWS*** 
Tim has promised an official update on the project within the next few days. This website will be the exclusive home to that news, thanks in part to a promise to exchange the name of the photo leaker for the rights to the direct release. Stay tuned, unless you’re gaffer Jamaal Moi, in which case you might want to spend time looking for a new job instead of cruising entertainment websites. 

First look at the treacherous Spectator

A source close to co-creator Tim Langton leaked the first image from his new project with Bill Fuerstenau that has the media world abuzz, perhaps even in a tizzy. This is purportedly the final specs on a villain known only as The Spectator, according to the source, who asked to remain anonymous because he was not authorized to speak about the project.

A disturbing first glimpse of the devious Spectator.

This offers the first solid clue into the foreboding riddle of the project’s marketing campaign, “What is it?” If this is indeed a villain on the project, it poses a greater question — to whom is The Spectator a villain? The world waits on pins and needles, needless to say (so then why did I say it?!).

Click here (no wait, click here) to watch the official teaser trailer if you want to scan for more clues. Stay here for any more breaking news on this hotly anticipated project.

What Is It?

Interception: Part 3

SEE PART 1 OF “INTERCEPTION”
SEE PART 2 OF “INTERCEPTION”

(Brett Favre, Brad Childress and Bus Cook are in a dingy, dimly lit elevator that’s loudly creaking downward. Childress and Cook are dressed in street clothes, while Favre is wearing a dirty white T-shirt and red gym shorts.)

Childress: Brett where are we going — ? (Looks out the bars of the elevator door and sees the 2007 NFC Championship game at Lambeau Field, when Favre throws his last INT as a Packer)

Cook: I haven’t felt this uncomfortable about a place since I went to that party with Brett and Mark Chmura … (Down another level, they see Favre tossing the last of six interceptions against the St. Louis Rams in the 2002 playoffs)

Favre: (Face cringes) Come on, you gotta read the defense, guys!

(They pass another level where Favre tosses a needless interception to the Dolphins in his last game as a Jet in 2008)

Favre: Don’t know why that’s down here. I was happy to end that season!

Childress: Bus, this must be where Brett keeps the memories of all his stupid mistakes. Look, there’s him throwing that dumb Hail Mary against the Eagles in 2004!

Cook: (Exasperated) Jesus, I hope we don’t have to see all of his mistakes …

(Down another level, the three see Favre at a McDonald’s, grabbing a large soda instead of a medium)

Childress: (Turns to Favre) What the hell — ?

Favre: (Brow furrows) Thought paying a quarter to upgrade to a large was a good deal.  Wasn’t that thirsty as it turned out. Just wasted a lot of soda.

Cook: Yeah, that’s quite the mistake, Brett. Pretty much on par with all your season-killing interceptions.

(They see Favre throw a bad, game-changing interception against the Broncos in the 1998 Super Bowl)

Childress: Geez, why did Packers fans like him so much?

Favre: Because I was so loyal!

(They move down another level and Favre’s final play with the Vikings is under way. Childress’ eyes widen as he throws himself toward the elevator door)

Childress: No, Brett! Don’t let go of the ball, just hang on! (The three watch Favre throw the ball across his body and into the arms of Tracy Porter; Childress recoils, his face red with rage) Jesus Christ, Brett! No! (He does his best to hold back his tears)

Favre: I gotta try that throw. I’m a gamer.

Childress: (Seething) Goddammit, I want to give you a swinging neckbreaker right now.

Cook: Brad, the elevator’s slowing down. (The three look up and can feel the elevator coming to a stop; they look out the door and see the projection of Favre’s brain, sitting on a white chair in a luminescent white room, wearing a matching suit and tie. He isn’t wearing any shoes. Favre’s brain rests his chin on a closed fist, seemingly deep in thought)

Childress: (Gathers himself and whispers to Cook) There’s Favre’s brain, Bus. Remember the plan and we should be out of this creepy ass place in no time.

Cook: Gotcha. Should be a piece of goddamn cake. (The three approach Favre’s brain)

Favre’s Brain: (Looks up at the three) What are you doing here?

Childress: Brett … it’s us! Your pals, Brad and Bus!

Favre: Haha! You’re named after what poor people ride, Bus!

Favre’s Brain: You shouldn’t be here. Then again, maybe you should be … (leans back in his chair)

Cook: (Shoots Childress a wary glance) Brett, we just want to talk to you about football.

Favre’s Brain: No, no football next year. I can’t risk my health any more than I already have … although I do enjoy playing it …

Childress: (Taken aback) He’s speaking in full sentences!

Favre’s Brain: My play was exemplary last year, and I still have it what it takes to be among the league’s elite. Yet — was it all a fluke? Would I be able to approach that level of performance if I returned to the gridiron?

Childress: And using words larger than three syllables!

Cook: Goddammit, it’s like watching a monkey recite Shakespeare …

Favre: (Huge smile on his face) More like Shakes-queer …

Favre’s Brain: I never much cared for Shakespeare, although his contributions to literature can’t be ignored.

Childress: This is where all his thought is stored, so it would stand to reason Favre’s brain is quite intelligent at this level of his dreams. He can’t access it when he’s awake because it’s buried so deep, though …

Cook: Whatever, let’s get this over with … (He nods to Favre, and they approach Favre’s brain)

Favre’s Brain: (Looking at Childress) Why did you come down here for me, Coach?

Childress: Because the Vikings need you to succeed, Brett. We can win a Super Bowl with you!

Favre’s Brain: Why do you think that? Have you seen what I’ve done my career?

Childress: Well, you’ve done a lot of great things, Brett. You’ve won a lot of big games –

Favre’s Brain: But the really big games – how have I performed then? The playoffs, the title games?

(Cook and Favre grab Favre’s brain and start pulling him out of the chair.)

Cook: (Turning back to Childress) Don’t listen to him, Brad! He’s messing with you!

Childress: You’ve … well … well, you’re due to do well in a big game, Brett. I believe in you.

Favre’s Brain: (Struggling with Favre and Cook) But why? What you saw last year was what I’ve been doing to Packers fans for 17 years. I’ve teased them with my natural skills, but then threw it all away with my selfish play. Do you really want that, Brad?

Favre: He’s handsome, but he’s squirmy! (Cook and Favre drag Favre’s brain over to the elevator; Childress is standing in the middle of the room, looking dumbfounded)

Cook: Come on, goddammit! If we can take him up in the elevator past all the negative plays weighing down his brain, we can convince Favre to come back next year!

Childress: (Staring at the ground) But … what are you saying, Brett?

Favre’s Brain: Let go, Brad. Let me go.

(Tavaris Jackson and Adrian Peterson stand in a field on Favre’s property. Jackson looks impatiently at his watch, then moves toward the football attached to the stops on the leaning chairs of Favre, Cook, Childress, Jared Allen, Peter King, Jon Gruden and Deanna Favre)

Peterson: Wait, don’t we have a couple minutes left?

Jackson: Fuck it, I’m getting bored watching these idiots sleep. Besides, there’s no more room on their faces to draw dicks … (starts putting headphones on each sleeper).

Peterson: What are the headphones for?

Jackson: To warn them that I’m about to wake their dumb asses up. (Presses play on a CD player, which begins the opening bars of “Purple and Gold” by Prince. Jackson picks up the football) You ready?

Peterson: (Smiling) I am so there. (Puts on his helmet and Jackson hands him the ball)

(Gruden looks up as the lyrics “raise every voice and let it b known/in the name of the purple and gold” can be heard over the Metrodome loudspeakers as the multitude of Favres continue throwing passes on the field)

Gruden: Right on, almost time to go home! (Shoots his handgun in the air)

(Hundreds of flags float on a rising amount of toilet water in Favre’s private New York quarters as Allen tries to plunge the plugged toilet in the nearby bathroom while Deanna opens windows to let the water out. They hear the lines “we r the truth if the truth can b told/long reign the purple and gold” come from the radio)

Deanna: Try putting more flags down the toilet! Maybe more weight will force down the clog!

Allen: (Furiously stuffing more flags down the toilet) FUCKIN FUCK

Deanna: Who turned on the radio?

(Favre and Cook have Favre’s brain inside the elevator, but Childress still is standing in the middle of the white room, looking dumbfounded. Favre and Cook look up as they hear the lines “ready 2 celebrate every score/ready 2 fight the elegant war/ready 2 hear the crowd roar”)

Cook: That atrocious song is playing now, Brad! We have to go now if we want to get to get past all of Brett’s negative memories!

Childress: But … if I let you go, Brett … how will we win a Super Bowl?

Favre’s Brain: By developing your young quarterbacks, improving your play calling –

“r spirits may b tired/r bodies may b worn”

Favre: This song’s pretty good!

Cook: Goddammit Brad! We’re going to leave without you if you don’t get in here now!

Favre’s Brain: Brad, I’m not the player you think I am. You’ve forgotten all my imperfections, when I was a tool and publicly questioned your choice of plays …

Childress: You were really a tool, I remember that now. (The walls of the white room start rumbling)

Favre’s Brain: I’m too set in my ways. When it comes down to crunch time, I’m going to do something stupid. And I can’t be coached … that’s just the way it is.

“but since this day is r destiny/r history – that’s y we must b”

Childress: But I should … ?

Favre’s Brain: Let go. Let go of my waffling, hostage-taking ways. You shouldn’t have to trade texts with me all off season and drive me from the airport. Let go of my past mistakes, and move on with your life. (The white room is now shaking violently, the four men doing their best to stay on their feet)

Childress: And make Tavaris the starter?

Favre’s Brain: Well, hopefully you have someone better than that –

Cook: Let’s go now! The song’s nearly over! Are you going to come with us or not?!

Childress: No … (Looking determinedly at Cook) Leave him here. The Vikings don’t need him.

Favre: Awww!

Childress: I’ll make my own legacy, build my team up from its solid foundation and developing young players instead of relying on the most unreliable person on the planet. I’m not going to be Favre’s hostage any more!

Cook: (Lets go of Favre’s brain, who scampers out of the elevator) Fuck it, I’m already rich. (Pushes Favre out of the elevator and closes the door. He presses a button and the elevator rises up, disappearing into the white ceiling)

“4ever strong as the wind that blows the Vikings’ horn”

Favre: But … how am I gonna play ball?

Childress: You figure that out, moron. (Heads toward the elevator shaft, where another elevator is coming up) You coming with? This place is pissing me off.

Favre: (Yawns) Naw, I think I’m going to take a quick nap. I’m dog tired!

Childress: But you’ll go into limbo if you – (thinks about it) Never mind, enjoy your nap. (Gets into the elevator and heads up)

Favre’s Brain: I have set Brad on the correct path … or was I supposed to convince him to bring me back? Shoot, I can never decide.

Favre: (Laying on the ground) Nighty night, Dictionary Favre!

“n the name of the purple and gold”

(Jackson hands Peterson the ball for the thirtieth time, who promptly puts it on the ground)

Peterson: Fuck me! (The stops on the chairs are pulled out, and the seven start falling)

(Gruden pulls out the blocking pads holding everyone up, even King, who smacks his head on the cement)

Gruden: Oops! Hope you weren’t still alive, Peter.

(Allen, carrying a load of flags over to the toilet in his arms, trips and falls face first into the desk Favre, Favre’s brain, Cook and Childress are sleeping on, knocking them into the rising toilet water)

Deanna: Good timing! I think the sewage is starting to come up the pipes.

Allen: OUCH I NEED MY BAH BAH

(Back in Favre’s field, the chairs the group of seven were sitting in crash to the ground)

Cook: (Groggily) Aw man, $13 million down the drain …

Gruden: (Rubbing his eyes) So what happened? Are we getting Favre back or what?

Childress: (Sits up) No, but we don’t need him. There’s so many other great players in the NFL that love the game as much as Favre does, maybe more. We can’t dwell on him any more if we ever want to move on with our lives.

Cook: Brad’s basically saying he screwed the pooch because he’s a piece of shit.

Childress: I may be a piece of shit, but at least I have pride now. Say, did you keep King alive like I told you to?

Gruden: Uh … (Looks worriedly over at King, who is tiredly getting off the ground) Yeah, totally. Look at him, still alive and stuff.

Deanna: What’s all that stuff on all y’all’s faces?

Jackson: They’re big ass dicks in permanent marker.

Allen: (Pointing at Cook) HAHA YOU MUST GAY FAGGOT

Cook: Stop saying “faggot.”

Allen: DRUNK I’M DRUNK

Gruden: Well, Brett, at least we tried. We can always watch your career retrospectives every weekend like we did the first few times you retired … (Looks over at Favre, who is still sleeping) Brett?

Cook: Goddammit, he’s still sleeping! What happened down there, Brad?

Childress: (Solemnly) He’s in limbo now. Just like where he had the Packers, Vikings and the rest of the NFL for so many years …

Deanna: He looks so cute sleeping! Even with all the cocks on this face.

Gruden: Will he ever wake up?

Childress: Maybe. It might be in a few hours, a few years or after the bye week. But he’s on his own now. (Stands up; flashes a smile at Jackson) T-Jack, you ready to handle the first-team offense?

Jackson: Fuck no, I’ve been screwing around here for the last couple of days. I don’t think I’m in playing shape anymore.

Childress: Well, pack your bags then! Time to go 7-9 on the season!

(Favre sits, drenched in water, across the table from an old, frumpy man in the main office of the Don Hutson Field facility)

Old Man: You’re trapped in limbo, Brett. You put the Packers here, you put the Vikings here. Further down the beach is your family, your friends; everyone you know you have put here.

Favre: (Tiredly) I know I can still play … but it’s hard …

Old Man: Why can’t you just let us go, Brett? I helped you revive your career in 2007.

Favre: But Coach McCarthy … (looks across the table, sees the name plate “Head Coach Mike McCarthy” in front of the old man) You were mean to me.

McCarthy: Brett … (grabs the Nerf Vortex football, throws a wobbly pass over to Favre) Just make up your fucking mind, will ya?

Favre: (catches the ball) I just … wanna play ball … (Eyes widen) I just wanna … play ball … (smile creeps across his face) I just wanna play ball! I wanna play ball! (Stands up and hugs McCarthy) I’m gonna play ball, Coach! (Sprints out of the room)

McCarthy: (Looking around) Uh, security? What the hell was that? When did you think the right time to jump in would have been? (The security personnel in the room shrug) Yeah, that was rhetorical, I know you don’t know.

(Favre races out of the practice facility, the wind whipping his loose clothing across his body. He runs toward a cliff edge, and five yards before the ledge, he throws the Nerf Vortex football. It sails wobbling into the ocean.)

Favre: Green 18 … (Leaps off the cliff) … set hut!

(Favre whips back awake in the field at his home, his beard long and frazzled and his face covered in permanent marker dicks. He looks around and sprints toward his house.)

Favre: (shouting) Deanna! I’m gonna play ball!

Deanna: (from inside the house) Oh good, you’re back! We were going to bury you in a couple days!

(Favre stands at a podium at a press conference, announcing his unretirement during Week 4 of the season.)

Favre: I feel I can play. Touchdowns and forward passes.

Reporter: How do you think your new teammates in San Francisco will receive you after you forced a trade from the Vikings?

Favre: Who?

Reporter: And why do you have a bunch of dicks on your face?

(Favre is sitting in his private office at the 49ers’ training facility, flipping dismissively through the team’s playbook. Mike Singletary walks in, a broad smile across his face)

Singletary: Sonofbitch Brett, we’re going Dallas with you at the helm! Whoever thought the guy to replace Steve Young would be one of his contemporaries?

Favre: So I start next week?

Singletary: Yep, I smoothed everything out with Alex Smith. Once he stopped crying, I think he understood where I was coming from. (Pats Favre on the shoulder) Glad to have you on board, man! And please, try to wipe those dicks off your face.

(Singletary walks out of the office. After he is gone, Favre tosses the team’s playbook over his shoulder and walks toward his window overlooking the training field. He pulls out his Nerf Vortex football, gripping it knowingly)

Favre: Packers fans must really love me now …

(He opens the window of his office. He looks one more time down at the football, then twists his body and rears back to throw off his back foot)

(The ball travels through the air down toward the field, flying in a perfect spiral. Favre smiles, yet again satisfied with his actions.)

(Suddenly, before the ball hits the ground, Tracy Porter sprints out and catches it)

FIN.

Interception: Part 2

READ PART ONE OF “INTERCEPTION”

(Brett Favre, Brad Childress, Brett’s wife Deanna, Peter King, Jon Gruden, Bus Cook and Jared Allen are in the players tunnel of the Metrodome. All are dressed in fancy clothes except for Favre, who remains in his white T-shirt and red gym shorts, and Allen, who is wearing his Vikings No. 69 jersey)

Cook: (awe in his voice) Goddamn it all …

(On the field, hundreds of footballs fly continuously back and forth through the air. Throwing the passes is a multitude of Favres; they are all dressed in a range of Packers, Jets, Vikings, Falcons and Southern Mississippi uniforms. No one catches the balls, which bounce away aimlessly around on the ground.)

King: (speaking softly, with a tear dancing down his cheek) Brett’s dreams are exactly like mine!

(After each pass lands, the Favre that threw the ball shoots his hands in the air and starts running down the field in celebration. Each one looks and points to the stands as if acknowledging the crowd, even though every seat in the stadium is empty.)

Childress: Get your bearings together, people. We’ve got a job to do. (Childress straightens his tie and strides toward the field. The others quickly follow.)

Gruden: (Still looking at the footballs flying through the air) Look at every one of those tosses! All perfect! All tight-spiraled lasers, just like the Caucasian Jesus Christ intended!

Deanna: How are we supposed to find Brett’s brain in all of this mess? How can know which Brett is the one we’re looking for?

Childress: I have a theory … (turns to Favre as they walk along the sidelines) Brett, throughout your life, when you were on the football field, what uniform or clothes were you wearing the least?

Favre: Hm … (While deep in thought, a ball zings by his head; everyone else in the group ducks except for Favre.) What do we wear during training camp?

Childress: The red no-contact shirt, in your case. (Turns toward the field, standing on his toes) I have a feeling that if we find a Favre with no pads and in a red No. 4 jersey, we’ll have found our mark.

Cook: Good thinking, he’s spent less time in those clothes than I have.

Gruden: So why can’t we just convince this version of Favre’s brain to not retire? I have to take a shit, I don’t want this to take long.

Childress: Because while most people think at all layers of consciousness, Brett can only think when he’s not aware of it, i.e. at the subconscious level. If he did think like normal folk, he wouldn’t throw into triple coverage as much as he does. We need to dig deep into Brett to get where actual thought occurs.

Gruden: So … maybe two more minutes or something? It’s like there’s Crap Kong trying to get out of my butt right now.

Allen: LOL SHIT YER PANTS FAGGOT

Deanna: (Notices fewer balls are going into the air; sees a lot of the Favres holding their footballs and staring down the group) Why are they starting to look at us?

Childress: They’re not looking at us … (Runs over to Allen) … they’re looking at him! (Grabs Allen’s jersey) Take this thing off right now or you’re going to ruin everything!

King: What’s going on, Brad?

Childress: He’s wearing a Vikings jersey — the Favres are staring him down because they think he’s a receiver! They’re locking onto him and won’t look away for anything, not even a checkdown guy!

Allen: FUCK YEA SKINS TIME BABY (rips off his shirt and throws it into the stands, immediately patting his belly as loudly as possible; dozens of footballs start pelting the chairs around the jersey)

Childress: (gnashing his teeth) I couldn’t possibly hate you more. (Scans the field again; his eyes widen as he spots a Favre with no helmet and in a red practice jersey) There! I see him! Follow me!

Cook: Watch out for the footballs! (The group runs through the field covering their heads with the exception of Gruden)

Gruden: It honestly would be an honor to get smoked in the face or testicles by ones of these passes.

(Favre’s brain’s projection of itself stands dressed in a red No. 4 jersey in a small opening of Favres on the field, gripping and regripping a ball while looking purposely downfield at nothing)

Childress: Now, once we get to Favre’s brain, we’re going to have to get him off the field, which we can accomplish by telling him he doesn’t have to go any preseason games next year …

(Suddenly, a black flash zooms past the group. It catches one of the balls in the air and takes off for one of the end zones)

Cook: What the goddammit was that? Some guy dressed all in black!

Deanna: That looked like one of … one of the Saints!

Gruden: Not just any Saint … that’s Tracy Porter!

Favre: No! Why doesn’t my o-line tackle him??

(Dozens more Tracy Porters start flying onto the field, grabbing more passes out of the air and running for pay dirt; the Favres start getting frantic)

Childress: Dammit! Get to Favre’s brain now, get him to the visitors tunnel!

(Favre runs over to Favre’s brain and puts him on his shoulders, taking off after the rest of the group; they both raise their hands and fist pump like they threw a touchdown pass)

Childress: If one of these Tracy Porters tackle Favre’s brain, the whole dream world is going to collapse! You can’t touch a player wearing a red jersey!

King: This all reminds me of this one time I drank coffee while flying to Baltimore … (gets caught in the throat by a bullet thrown from a Jets Favre; King falls to the ground holding his throat and coughing violently)

Deanna: Peter King got hit! What do we dooooo?

Gruden: Just kill him so he’ll wake up. (Pulls out a handgun)

Childress: No! You can’t do that!

Gruden: Why? I want to try out my handgun.

Childress: Because! The shots Jared Allen gave us are too strong, he won’t wake up completely! He’d get put in a state of limbo – he’d become dumber than Brett!

Favre: Shit that’s dumb. (Face gets stern) DOWN … SET …

Gruden: Come on, I just got this gun!

(Allen and Deanna grab King and drag him to the visitors tunnel, with more Porters intercepting passes from the Favre projections)

Cook: What the hell is going on here, Brad?! All these goddamn Tracy Porters, where did they come from?

Gruden: Why would Brett make projections of Tracy Porter? Brett’s got one of the shortest memories of any QB in the game!

Childress: (running his hand through where his hair used to be) Because … they’re not from Favre … they’re from me.

Cook: Jesus cheesemaking Christ, Brad! What else is your screwed-up psyche going inject into Favre’s dreams?

Childress: It’s just been haunting me … (turning to Favre) Why did you throw that pass, you idiot? Why didn’t you just run?!

Favre: (flashes an “aw-shucks” smile) I’m just a big kid out there coach!

Favre’s Brain: You too? Git ‘er done! (Favre and Favre’s brain chest bump)

Deanna: More of those negro fellows are appearing! What do we do?

Childress: (stuttering with frustration) We … we need to get Favre’s brain sleeping. (Pulls out the dream device) We can still do this … (looks up at Gruden) Do you remember your part of the plan?

Gruden: Yeah, but I wish it involved shooting Peter King in the head.

Favre’s Brain: Gunslinging!

(Everyone is hooked up to the dream device except for Gruden and King. They all sit on the ground leaning against some blocking pads; King sits with his eyes closed and blood slowly dribbling down his lips, his breathing labored.)

Childress: You have to keep King alive, Jon. Make sure he keeps sitting upright so his breathing passage doesn’t get blocked.

Gruden: No promises.

Childress: OK, to get us to fall asleep, you’re going to have to describe your offensive scheme with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Jon. That should put us out for a good while.

Gruden: All right, but I think it was pretty interesting myself. First, we’d bring in three tight ends, putting only one wide receiver out. A blocking wide receiver. Then, we’d have Brad Johnson call for any shifts in blocking, maybe call an audible to a fullback dive to Mike Alstott … (notices everyone is sound asleep; stops talking and looks around) Hope Brett projected some toilets, this is becoming a code red emergency in my pants.

(Favre, Childress, Deanna, Cook and Allen are standing in a darkened hallway, with a doorway at its end. They all are wearing the same clothes as before except for Allen, who’s wearing Renaissance-era attire)

Cook: Why did you project yourself wearing that, you walking OWI?

Allen: I’M FUCKIN DRUUUUNK GIVE ME A BREAK

Childress: Brett, where’d did your brain go?

Favre: He’s probably in my private office down thataway. (Points to the only door in the hallway)

Deanna: Oh yeah! This is your “no teammates allowed” quarters you requested when you played with the Jets! (Favre leads the group to the door)

Cook: Careful opening that door, we might get sacked by Darren Sharper thanks to crybaby over here.

Childress: (Exasperated) I knew if you guys understood the risks, you wouldn’t have came along, all right? I’m going to be fine now, I’ve got my mind under control. We’ll be awake in the real world in no time.

Deanna: How are we going to know for sure when that happens?

Childress: Why, your totems, of course. (Allen, Cook and Deanna stare at him blankly) Oh yeah! I forgot to tell you guys about totems … uh, sorry I guess.

Cook: I’m going to slap that playoff beard off your face, you dipshit.

Childress: Well, I know Brett has his Nerf Vortex football that is guaranteed to spiral every time, and I have my tiny little headset, so we’re all set. Don’t worry, I’ll let you guys know when you’re awake.

Cook: Yeah, you’ve just been a champ about ensuring our safety so far, I’m super confident in you.

Deanna: This is fun, I’m not sure I want to wake up! I feel like Jason Bond sneaking around everywhere!

(Favre reaches the door, which has a piece of notebook paper taped to it that reads “preye-vate: farves only” written in crayon; Favre opens the door, and inside the room sits Favre’s brain, still in practice squad attire, looking out a large window over the New York City skyline)

Allen: (throws his feathered Renaissance hat in the air) HELL YEAH WE FOUND BRETT’S BRAIN FAGGOTS

Childress: Dammit, quit saying “faggots.”

Allen: (face droops in sadness) BUT I’M DRUNK

(Favre’s brain slowly turns around to face the group)

Favre’s Brain: Are we going to leave for Minnesota soon?

Favre: (raises his hands like he threw a touchdown) We’ll show those Packers!

Childress: Let’s hurry up, we wasted too much time in Favre’s last dream. (Takes a step toward Favre’s brain when a yellow penalty flag lands on the floor in front of him as a shrill whistle cuts through the silence) The hell …?

(Like the beginning of a rainstorm, more penalty flags start falling, smacking against the floor and everyone in the room with a whistle accompanying each one; within moments, it’s a complete downpour of flags, and the whistles drown out nearly all sound)

Cook: Goddammit, Childress! I thought you said you were in control!

Childress: (eyes wide) Who sent 12 men in that huddle?! Who can’t count?!

Favre: Twelve is pretty close to 11, coach!

Childress: (Pulls out a dream device) Jared! Deanna! Hook us up quick before we get smothered by these flags! I’m going to need Jared to give us a kick and Deanna to lock herself in a closet because she’s proven to be exceedingly useless on this mission!

Allen: A KICK IN THE NUTS??

Favre: Hahaha he said nuts! Is he drunk or something?

(Favre, Favre’s brain, Cook and Childress are hooked up to the dream device as more flags and whistles fill the air; Allen has them laying on Favre’s brain’s desk so he can lift up the table and slide them off for a kick)

Cook: How are we going to get to sleep in this mess?

Childress: Here, read these … (He hands out printed copies of Peter King’s Monday Morning Quarterback column) Just skip to the “Aggravating Travel Notes” section.

Cook: “On a flight to San Diego, I couldn’t get my iPod to work … (eyes start drooping) … how could I … listen to my … recordings of Dustin Pedroia … reading the phonebook …”

(The stapled sheets of paper fall out of the four men’s hands simultaneously, landing softly on the two feet of flags in the floor. The flags and whistles immediately stop)

Deanna: (Clapping and jumping) Hooray! Now let’s clean up all these flags, Jared. (Starts picking a few up) Do you think there’s a toilet around here we can flush these down?

Allen: I’M FUCKIN DRUNK

TO BE CONTINUED

Interception

(Brett Favre’s eyes snap open; he’s on a sandy ocean beach, the tide lapping his face as it draws back into the ocean. He slowly pushes himself up, trying to understand where he is. He sees the Don Hutson Center sitting on top of a stony ridge along the beach.)

Favre: Just … (slowly standing up) … wanna play ball …

(He shuffles and stumbles his way to the center, his sea water-saturated white shirt and red gym shorts weighing him down; before he can get too far, two men in Packers security clothing accost him)

Security Man 1: Stop right there! We’ve got private OTAs going on inside!

Security Man 2: (into a headset) We found an intruder. Do we take him alive? (he waits a beat, then nods in response)

(Favre is sitting inside the main office of the center, looking across a desk at an old, frumpy man)

Old Man: (his voice shaking with age) What are you doing here?

Favre: (his eyes glued to the ground) I’m here … to play ball. That’s all I want to do.

Old Man: (he looks at a Nerf vortex football on the table before him) This is all security could find on you … (he picks up the football, tossing it between his hands) I knew a man who had a football like this once. It would always be a perfect spiral no matter how poorly he threw it.

Favre: I just want to play … ball …

(Favre is sitting around a table with Bus Cook, his wife Deanna, Peter King, Jon Gruden, Jared Allen and Brad Childress in his home in Mississippi; everyone is dressed impeccably except for Favre, who is dressed in a dirty white T-shirt and red gym shorts)

Favre: I’m getting out of the game. Touchdowns are too hard to throw.

Deanna: (in her weird, sing-songy Southern accent) But Brett, you’ve thrown more than anyone else in the game! You’re sooooo gooood at it!

Cook: Goddammit Brett, you can’t flake out on us now! There’s $13 million on the table!

King: Let me just take this time to tell you what an honor it is to see you play. I feel like I’m watching Jesus getting a blowjob from Mother Theresa every time you take a snap.

Gruden: I’ll do ya one better, Brett — it’s an honor just to know you exist! Your friendship is the one thing in my rancid life keeping me going!

Allen: I’M FUCKIN’ DRUNK

Favre: But my ankle is ouchie.

Childress: Yes, but do you know what us more ouchie, Brett? The sting of how last year ended, how everyone was laughing at you after that final pick. You don’t want to live with that pain until you’re an old man, do you?

Favre: (eyes get wide and he sits up slightly) Sidney catch it!

Deanna: Brett, you should play again! You look like you have so much fun out there, especially when the Saints are being pirates on your ankle.

Childress: Look, Brett — the Vikings need you to play. The NFL needs you to play. You need you to play. You need that second Super Bowl to define your career.

Favre: Yeah, but … (in a singing voice, throwing his arms outward operatically) I don’t know if I wanna plaaaaaaaay … ball!

King: (Shakes his head) He’s too indecisive. The third preseason game is coming up, we’re not going to get him back to Minnesota in time.

Allen: FUCKIN’ JACK DANIELS

Cook: I know, he’s gotten worse after that surgery on his ankle. He’s physically able to go, but he’s still not sure for some goddamn reason. It’s like we’re asking him to the prom or something.

Deanna: How will we pay for all our possum traps without that $13 million? Brett, you have to go back!

Favre: (slaps his hands together and points across his body) You gotta cross, Sidney! Sidney, c’mon!

Gruden: Whatever decisiveness he had off the field has left him. He’s just a jumbled mess of hard-nosed football instincts in that oversized noggin of his now.

Cook: So are we screwed? Is he going to goddamn waffle the entire year?

Childress: (Puts his hand over his chin, rubbing his stubbly beard) Well, maybe there’s a way. But I’m not sure we can pull it off …

Deanna: I’m willing to try anything to get Brett back playing the game he loves so much that he can’t decide whether he wants to play it every year.

Childress: Well, back when I was coaching at UW-Madison, the science department had this device, where you could go … inside someone’s dreams.

King: Inside …

Gruden: … their dreams?

Allen: FUCKIN’ DRUNK?

Childress: Well, it was mostly for extracting plays from players from other Big Ten schools so we could know what they were going to run. But there were some experiments done where they would actually … insert ideas into other players’ minds, through their subconscious. To sabotage their play.

Cook: You mean, to make them throw into double coverage and the like?

Childress: Yeah, and trying to catch passes with their buttcheeks. We had some success, but …

King: (leaning in) Are you saying we should … plant the idea of coming back being the right thing to do in Brett’s head?

Gruden: You mean … inception?

Childress: No, not quite inception in Brett’s case. The idea is already somewhere in that mass of horseshit he calls a brain. What I’m really thinking of is the doubt that’s preventing him from choosing that idea.

Deanna: … to remove the idea of retirement from his mind?

Childress: Yes … more of an, interception than inception, I suppose.

Cook: (leans back in his chair, incredulous) Goddammit … you mean you’re trained in this Willy Wonka bullshit?

Childress: (Smirking) How do you think the Badgers won those Rose Bowls during my tenure?

King: I’m willing to try it. I … the world needs its gunslinger.

Gruden: The old Graybeard!

Deanna: The Big Kid!

Allen: JIMMY BEAM FOR BREAKFAST

Favre: (Looking at them quizzically) Hut hut hike?

King: Yeah, should we be talking about this with Brett? Might that undermine the plan a bit?

Childress: With most people, probably. But for one, I don’t think he was listening; and two, he’s going to have to help us. If his dreams are half as jumbled and nonsensical as his waking mind, we’re going to need his guidance to navigate his subconscious.

Gruden: And there’s no danger of self-sabotage, because Brett’s so dumb he’s no longer connected to his brain, right?

Childress: Exactly. It’s like there’s Favre’s brain … and then there’s Favre. And we need to get to his brain, and Favre’s the only one who can get us there.

Cook: That’s an awful lot of “ands.”

Childress: When you find a better way to construct those sentences, you can let me know, honkey. So are you in, No. 4?

Favre: Can I play ball if I say yes?

Childress: (smiling) I certainly believe we have a shot at that happening, Brett.

Favre: What about touchdowns? Two-point conversions? John Madden???

Childress: We’ll have all of that and more, Brett, if you guide us through your dreams so you can play for the Vikings again.

Favre: Hooray! Packers fans will love me even more!

(Out in a field on Favre’s property, there are seven chairs lined up side by side, propped precariously on wooden stops; a string is attached to all of the stops, connecting to a football laying on the ground; the group of seven from the meeting are standing around Childress working on the dream device near the chairs)

Childress: I’ll have Tavaris Jackson plug us all into Favre’s dreams, and we should have a good two hours of real-world time to get in there and intercept the retirement idea.

Cook: But how do we get out of the dream?

Childress: With a kick — the sense of falling that wakes you up from a dream. (Nods toward the chairs) After an hour and fifty minutes, we’ll have Tavaris hand the ball these strings are attached to off to Adrian Peterson. About thirty handoffs in, he should fumble the ball away, kicking out the stops and sending us on a fall.

Deanna: (smiling and waving to Peterson and Jackson) Hi there!

Jackson: Shouldn’t we be at training camp or something?

Gruden: You disrespectful thug! Brett is a legend, and you could learn a thing or two about hard-nosed play and hustle! You, with all the talent in the world, just refuse to put your nose to the grindstone like my dear, snow-white Brett —

King: Gruden! Save the racist player analysis for later! Just stay focused on your part of the plan!

Cook: Brett, are you ready for this? I mean, it’s going to be dangerous going into a dream within a dream within a dream …

Favre: I dream big. I’m always looking downfield for that big play.

Cook: (frowning) Right. (Turns to Childress) Are you sure we aren’t walking into shit city with this dumbass guiding us?

Childress: It’s risky, yeah. But the reward of another season of Favre is too great to ignore. (Stands up) All right, Tavaris! Set us up!

(The group of seven sit in their chairs, all hooked up to the dream device)

Childress: Everyone drink the shot glass to the right of your chair. Jared Allen has mixed up a drink that will knock us all out solid for an equal two-hour time period.

Allen: YEAH WE’LL GET SO FUCKIN’ DRUUUUNK

Gruden: Why the hell is he going with us?

Childress: Dammit, you try to tell him to go away. Nobody even invited him to Favre’s house in the first place. And he’s so damn drunk all the time!

Allen: SHOTS YEAH FAGGOTS WE’LL GET WAAAASTED

(Everyone takes their shots in unison; they lean back and begin to drift away)

King: The mind of Brett Favre! What a scoop this will be on that turd burglar Don Banks!

Childress: We’ll see you on the other side, Brett … see you … (eyes closing) … next season …

Favre: (falling asleep) Blue … 42 … set … (he drops his shot glass, and everyone is asleep)

(Jackson and Peterson look at the group for a moment; Jackson walks toward the sleeping seven, pulling out a black sharpie)

Jackson: I’m going to draw the biggest, gayest dicks all over their faces …

TO BE CONTINUED

A dog poem

There was a dog I saw today
It stared me in the eye
Unable to look at its crotch
It could’ve been girl or guy

The creature gazed expectantly
As if  something I owed
I emptied pockets hurriedly
Its ire I feared to goad

The tail on its furry rump wagged
A taunt to be certain
I sweated bullets and cried
It looked to be curtains

But the pooch, how kind of it
Took mercy on my soul
Instead of death, it pooped sans shame
Its shit smelled like a troll

Walking off, the dog satisfied
My life could continue
I went home to go on living
And write fanfic of Capt. Ginyu