Nut-Punch of the Week, Jan. 18-22, '10

Hey, everyone. It's nice to be back. No, really, it is. Lounging around getting drunk and masturbating, while certainly enjoyable, is nowhere NEAR as fun as blogging. You'll just have to trust me on that one.

Anyway, along with this little blog-wide re-launch of ours comes not just a more robust and consistent posting schedule, but also the dusting-off and streamlining of some forgotten features of the dayz of wayback. Among them: the DoF Nut-Punch, wherein I, your beloved Unca Mert, deliver a very deserving target an extremely swift, decisive, and painful virtual sock to the berries.

Onto this week's very-worthy recipient:

Brett Favre.

Oh, Brett. How tough it must be to be you.

Total disclosure: I'm not even necessarily a sports fan. But that display last night reminded me of the reasons why I'm not.

When Favre un-retired himself yet AGAIN to come and play for Minnesota, it was because he thought he had one last run at the Super Bowl. And for awhile there, it looked like he might be right. His high-risk, high reward style of game play was resulting in far more of the latter than the former coming to pass. Before anyone knew it, there they were playing for the NFC Championship.

And, if I can, I'd like to crawl inside Brett's big, meaty melon for a moment, and take a look at what must have been happening in there towards the end of regulation...

"Huh. Here we are, with seconds left in the fourth. Score's tied. We're 40-some-odd yards out. We win this, we go to The Dance. Doing so would justify the whole reason I came back, not to mention shut up my critics. Ryan Longwell, who I KNOW can make this 3 based on the fact that I played with him for YEARS in Green Bay, is warming up on the sidelines. Peterson could run it another couple of yards and put him into even BETTER position to split the posts. All I have to do is hand it off to him...

...Naaah. I'm gonna put it up. I'm sure everything will be fine."

Of course, we all know what happened. He lofted that baby late and back over the middle, hoping to hit Sidney Rice. Instead, it floated softly into the waiting arms of Tracy Porter. And the entire state of Minnesota wept in unison.

Not shown: the giant purple poop he's currently dropping in his dungarees.

Thing is, Favre really should have known better. Most of us LEARN from our mistakes. But oh, no. Not him. He's above all that, even though last night's debacle was EERILY reminiscent of his last playoff appearance with Green Bay in aught-seven. Packers fans remember it well: It was Packers/Giants. Green Bay was well within boot range, and the score was close enough that a field goal would have won it all. But rather than chew up yardage and time by slipping the ball to his backs before handing it over to special teams for the field goal, Favre's dumb ass decided to up and huck it over the line...and directly to Corey Webster. D'oh.

The end result? Packers fans had a one-two punch of deja vu and schadenfreude last night. To them, it was a double dose of the sort of Instant Karma John Lennon used to wax rhapsodic about.

"I'll thank you to leave me the hell out of this."

And hey...I'm not trying to take anything away from the Saints. Good for them. They've had a hell of a season, and they deserve it. Not to mention that New Orleans really needs the boost in morale right about now. For the Superdome to go from a de facto charnel house to a championship in a couple of years is a huge boon for that town. Plus, they've never been to the Big Game. Not once. And even though it's been awhile for Minnesota, at least they've been able to make the trip a couple of times.

And yes, it's not like the rest of the team were faultless. The offensive line was so full of holes that the wind blowing across it played a B-flat blues scale, and a mischievous cartoon mouse obviously buttered Adrian Peterson's gloves prior to kickoff. But the fact remains that in the final seconds, Favre COULD have made a decision that would have won the whole team the game, putting them into their first Super Bowl in more than three decades. You might say his entire career came down to that play. But instead of rising to the occasion, he got down on his knees, painted his lips up a nice whore crimson, spit in his palm, and blew the whole season.

So, enjoy your jab to the stones, Brett. You've earned it. As for us, we get to "enjoy" a full off-season of "will-he-or-won't-he" speculation regarding your retirement, knowing we can't believe a goddamn word you say either way.

Happy Monday!