Ask Brett! Volume 8


In a monthly periodical, you, the readers of Lush For Life, can submit questions to Danny Albertson, which he will forward on to Brett Favre, in their ongoing conversations.

Due to the enormous workload and massive panic attacks I’ve endured over the course of the past several weeks, the need to distance myself from all the turmoil and constant surveillance we cope with on a day to day basis at Lush For Life Headquarters has continued to grow. This is why I’ve decided to work abroad this week, traveling to the sweaty ball-sack of the Heart of America – Kiln, Mississippi – to conduct my periodical interview with the immaculate Brett Favre, where we can discuss current events, as well as the finer things in life, without the ongoing paranoia and hustle and bustle that usually encompasses both of our lives.
“It’s nice to be able to take a deep breath and relax, isn’t it, Brett?” I asked Brett as I climbed on the back grill of his 4120 Series John Deere.
“I tell ya, there’s nothin’ like getting’ out to the country and just enjoyin’ yer life, the way our four fathers intended,” he said as he started the tractor’s engine, pausing to listen to the calming, humming, raspiness of his favorite thing in the whole world.
Spending time with this man is always hard for me to classify. “We’re in your neck of the woods, buddy,” I said, “what do you have in mind for us?”
“I’ve got to run some errands, Danny,” he said as he cracked open a warm Milwaukee’s Best and turned onto State Road 603, heading towards town. “So you better just ask me whatever it is you’ve got on yer mind while we’ve got time, cause I’ve got over 30 acres to mow by sundown.”
I grabbed a beer from his stash in the floorboard of the John Deere so I could truly absorb the moment. “I know it’s the offseason, and you don’t make it into the big city too often…”
“Damn straight,” he interrupted, taking a gulp. “This is Brett Favre time. This is when I spend time with my family and build up that good ol’ character I need to keep milkin’ for the media.”
“I understand; believe me,” I assured him. “You know, the democrats are starting to make some noise up on Capitol Hill, and there’s a lot of speculation to who will win the nomination for the next election,” I said, hoping he has some faint clue to the current Washington lowdown.
“Them dern democrats are always up to something,” he said, giving me a look that he actually has something important to say. “If it ain’t some bleedin’ heart spoutin’ ‘bout civil rights, then it’s some fast-talkin’ suit tellin’ me to either clone my grandmother or to stop prayin’.”
“But if you had to pick one, who would it be?” I asked him.
“I tell you, I never trust a woman to do a man’s job,” he said, “You think some Sheila could be out here doin’ this man’s work?” he said, crushing his empty beer can on his forehead and throwing it at an oncoming semi. “If it ain’t fit for grit, it ain’t fit for shit,” he said, “and ol’ Hilly’s as dilly as they come.”
The gross weather began to get on top of me. And sitting on the storage rack of this industrial lawnmower wasn’t helping. “This damn Mississippi heat is killing me. I don’t see how you live here.”
He began to laugh. “Your meat ain’t built for this Kiln heat,” he joked, “This kinda livin’ll make yer butt sweat seep right through them city britches.”
“How do you feel about Barack Obama?” I asked to try to get back on topic, but the warm Milwaukee’s Best wasn’t helping.
“Somethin’ about that sumbitch don’t seem right to me. When you take a Texan outta power, all the dern hyenas come out for all the scraps,” he said, pulling his tractor over and parking in the gravel parking lot of the local corner store. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna vote for no terrorist, and that’s what he looks like to me.” He turned off his 4120 and headed into the store for a sack of backwoods beef jerky and a quart of kerosene, which gave me some time to pound back another one of his god-awful beers to make the interview run a little smoother.
He came out of the store with one of the locals with him, obviously joking about something, most likely making fun of me in some manner. Typically “city folk” like myself are not well received in “these parts”.
I was drenched in sweat and obviously not enjoying the lifestyle that Brett so openly embraces. “Damn, boy,” he says as he laughs with some sun-burnt, illiterate local, “are you made outta plastic or something? You look like a piece of cheap Chinese crap that was left out in the sun for too long.”
I felt as though this interview would have to be conducted later, at Headquarters, in the foretold promised land of air-conditioning and wireless internet. “You ready to head back, buddy?” I asked. “I have a deadline.” We shotgunned a pair of beers and jumped on the tractor, heading back towards the Favre Homeplace.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, noticing he was doing some weird mouth movement, reminiscent of someone who just plowed into a line of proper booger sugar.
“The damn jerky is as tough as bloodhound’s hind leg. I’m pickin’ the chewed beef outta my canines,” he said.
“Sorry we didn’t get to go into as much detail as maybe you or I would’ve liked,” I told him.
He didn’t seem to mind. “It’s fine. After I drop you off, I’ll head north on 603 till I find acouple toothless slags.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, intrigued.
“Oh yeah, man. There’s nothin’ better than scourin’ the ol’ countryside, shotgunin’ beers on the back of yer John Deere, bird-doggin’ chicks.”
I may not make it back for deadline after all.

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