The Favreover, Act II

When we last left our interpid heroes, it was gameday and they had lost Brett Favre after a wild night on the Redneck Riviera, also known as Biloxi, MS.  They woke up with no memory of the previous night, and the only clue they have is that at some point they were at the Biloxi office of Dr. James Andrews. 

CUT TO THE BILOXI OFFICE OF DR. JAMES ANDREWS.  PETERSON, HUTCH, AND DB ARE IN HIS OFFICE AS DR. ANDREWS SITS BEHIND HIS PLUSH MAHOGANY DESK.  ON THE WALLS ARE PICTURES OF VARIOUS ATHLETES.  IN THE SAME FRAME ARE THE MRI’S OF THE JOINTS THOSE ATHLETES HAD WORKED ON BY DR. ANDREWS.  IMMEDITELY BEHIND THE DESK CHAIR IS A PICTURE OF FAVRE AND THE SHOULDER MRI.  BELOW THAT IS ANOTHER PICTURE OF FAVRE, WITH THE ANKLE MRI.

 

DR. ANDREWS:  Look, I already told you, you came in here with a mild concussion, a football, and some duct tape.  No big deal.  None of you could really articulate what you wanted, I decided to tape the football to Peterson’s hand.  It seems like it’s the only way you can hold on to that ball, son.

Peterson:  For the love of Jesus, I get it!!  I WON’T FUMBLE AS MUCH THIS YEAR!!!

Bevell:  Was Brett with us when we came in here?

Dr. Andrews:  Uhhh, yeah. He was as a matter of fact.

Peterson:  All right, we’re in business!!  Was he okay?

Andrews (walking over to a sink and then scrubbing his hands):  Yeah, just whacked out of his mind.  You all were.  Look, guys, I really gotta go.  I have a surgery upstairs in about 20 minutes.  Troy Williamson is getting a hand transplant.

Peterson (holding up two sideline passes for the game against the Saints):  Look, Dr. Andrews, we just need a few more minutes of your time.

Andrews (walking out of the office and down a hallway, grabbing a chart as he leaves the office):

Deal. (looks down at chart).  Okay, here we go.  Patient name Brett Favre, 2:45 arrival, sore ankle, a little bruised ego, pretty standard.  Oh, this is interesting.  You guys had a lot of purple drank in your system.  You know, the purple kool aid?

Peterson:  What, are you saying we’re going to win the Super Bowl this year?

Dr. Andrews:  Actually I do.  And so do a lot of other people.  Somebody probably slipped you the kool aid last night.  I’m not surprised you don’t remember anything.  Neither will the entire state of Minnesota, if you do go all the way.  That state will burn down from the celebration.  It will make Detroit look like a Nun’s convent.

Hutch:  Hahaha!!  Doc, none of us can remember anything from last night?  Remember?  And when has Detroit had anything to celebrate?  Has it been in our lifetime?

Dr. Andrews:  Look guys, I gotta go.  Just keep drinking the purple kool aid…in moderation…and you’ll be fine.  You’ll go all the way.  (Looking at Peterson).  Just hold on to the football inside the 10 yard line during the NFC championship game, okay?

Peterson:  OH…MY…GOD!!!  I GET IT!!!!  Harvin fumbled too!!  Favre threw two picks!!  Does anyone ever mention those?? NOOOOO!!!

Bevell:  Look, doc, was there anything else?  Maybe someplace where we were going, somewhere we had come from?  Anything at all?

Dr. Andrews:  Yeah, there was something else.  You were talking about this guy, former teammate that got cut a few years ago.  You had just come from his place, laughing that you’d stolen his tiger.

Hutch (Worried look on his face):  I'm not supposed to be within two hundred feet of a school... or a Chuck E. Cheese.

Peterson:  It’ll be okay Hutch.  Doctor, do you have an address for where this team practices?

Dr. Andrews:  Yes I do.  It’s on ‘ Play This Year or Don’t, But Either Way, Make Up Your Mind’ Boulevard.  I’m a doctor, not a tour guide.  Figure it out yourself. 

OUR TREPID BAND OF VIKINGS LEAVE THE OFFICE AS TROY WILLIAMSON IS FILLING OUT FORMS AT THE FRONT DESK.  WITHIN 10 SECONDS, HE DROPS A PEN, A CLIPBOARD, AND A GLASS OF WATER.

Peterson:  Well, looks like Troy hasn’t changed one bit.  Let’s head back to the hotel and get a map.

Bevell:  At least he doesn’t have a football taped to his hand.

PETERSON PUNCHES BEVELL ON THE SIDE OF HIS HEAD

Peterson:  Hold on to that, Mr. big shot offensive coordinator.  Nice smile.

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