Before I begin this post in earnest, let me admit that I realize that my title is, in itself, bullshit. In several ways BS is my bread and butter. Consider: 1) I have been accused of possessing the Dorsey tendency toward hyperbole (thanks for that, Mikey J). 2) I like to tell stories. 3) I am in a PhD program in English Literature. Enough said.
But there is a specific brand of BS that I do hate. And I have a hard time characterizing it exactly, so I am going to provide you with a few very specific examples so that you get my general meaning.
* I hate encores. Encores are the kind of BS that I hate. Listen Mr./Ms Rockstar, I know that you have a specific set list that you are going to play on any given night. I know that you are going to save some of your best material (and maybe a kickass cover or two) for the end of the show. Why do you have to walk offstage and make me beg for it? Did I not already pay out the nose and then stand around for two hours (not to mention the hour for your crappy opening act) getting elbowed and groped and having to watch some obnoxious couple glue themselves together (woman's back to man's stomach) and sway in front of me, all for the pleasure of hearing the one or two songs that I really like at the end of the evening? C'mon. I hate clapping anyway. You have hard earned cash that should prove my appreciation. Just come out on stage and play a freaking set and then have the house turn up the lights to let me know to go home. I don't need to chap my palms just to have you run back up on stage to give a practiced Sally-Field-esque "they like me, they really like me" look to your audience. And don't even get me started on the multiple encore variety. That is just ridiculous.
*I hate haggling. Haggling is the kind of BS that I hate. Just tell me what you want for an item, and then I'll decide if I think that it is worth it. Seriously. This is why I avoid 1) car dealerships, 2) garage sales, 3) conversations with my brother. (You all know which one I mean, too.) I also avoid late-night television infomercials. How 'bout you only take up two minutes of airtime and leave the other 58 for for rerunning The Scarecrow and Mrs. King (which, let's face it, is what I really want to be watching at 3 am) by just telling me everything that my $19.99 plus shipping and handling (also BS, by the way) will buy? I don't need the illusion of getting anything free. I just need to know everything that will come in the box, should I order your product, and then I need some Bruce Boxleitner.
*I hate threats from people in authority that something is going to go on my "permanent record." "Permanent records" are the kind of BS that I hate. What crap. No one has a "permanent record", except maybe with the FBI or with Homeland Security, and, let's face it, if you have that kind of file, no one is there reminding you that they are keeping records. They want to make you forget that you have that kind of permanent record.
*But more than any of that, I hate athletes who claim that they are going to retire and then keep coming back to their sport, often running their otherwise admirable sporting legacy into the ground. Retirement fake-outs are the kind of BS that I hate.
And now maybe you know what this post is really about--that giant tool Brett Favre. Seriously. I don't care how good a QB he is, or how loyal he has been perceived as being to the Packers, if I were a Packer fan (hell, if I cared about professional football at all), I'd be pissed. Either play the game or don't, I don't really care, but STOP claiming that you are retiring.
Did his mother never read Brett "The Little Boy Who Cried Wolf"? That kid was EATEN because he played fast and loose with the truth. Don't test people's devotion, Brett, because eventually they will start to feel burned. (And I understand that Favre is not the first athlete to pull this sort of thing. I mean, this is part of the reason that I can't freaking stand Michael Jordan, and why, as much as I like the idea of sweaty men in shorts trying to hit each other as hard as they can, I can't get too into boxing.)
True story: in the early to mid-1980s, the members of Duran Duran constantly leaked rumors that the band was breaking up. Every time this intelligence reached me, I'd cry hot, sad and angry tears of frustration. How could life continue if Nick, John, Simon, Andy and Roger could not (WOULD NOT!) continue on together? But after several years of these rumors (1982-1985), I finally wised up. At the tender age of ten I came to realize that I had been played. These threats of disbanding were just a way to drum up interest, which would lead to record sales. The final betrayal--a "temporary" hiatus in which Duran Duran became Power Station and Arcadia (both bands that sounded like DD, but somehow much less cool)--only reaffirmed what I already knew. That these men were not artists. They were opportunists. And, what's more, they were lying opportunists. (Note that they toured the U.S. earlier this year.)
Packers fans, take a page from my book. Heartache and disillusionment lie this way. Recognize Favre for the whiny, aging, egomaniac that he is. Let him go. Make it clear that you don't need him anymore. Don't give him what he wants.
I hate Brett Favre. Brett Favre is the kind of BS that I hate.