Suck it up, number four

Brett Favre calls it quits, saying "I'm tired. I'm just tired." He's 38 years old. In human years, I am 56. I'm tired too, but you don't see me whining about my heart not being in it anymore. People count on me. Not only in this house but, I'm told, in the blogosphere at large. It seems like pundits have exhausted their vocabulary. "Superdelegates," "pitchy" "in it to win it." On American Idol, the adjective-challenged Randy Jackson has resorted to making up words, most recently "prowness." And so it's left to me to scour the ether and find something fresh to say. But I do it. I do it for my family. I do it for the world. When I could just take a nap.

This fall, when everyone is craving the wonky pass play that manages to hit the mark, leaving us to exclaim "Sweet Nelly on a tricked-out teeter totter!" When cheeseheads are dreaming wistfully of the unintelligible, pre-snap, gruffly shouted melange of numbers (is it three-nineteeeeeeeeeeeeeen?), what will I be doing? Probably slaving away at the keyboard, pouncing on the nauseating political process and finding fault with fashion everywhere. And what will Brett Favre be doing? Taking a nap.

Disgusting.