Croppaganda

When several media outlets recently reported that Brett Favre might have called it quits, there wasn’t the usual groundswell of hagiographic retirement stories that are reserved for those who heal lepers, cure cancer and balance our budget.

A grey-bearded boy can only cry wolf so often.

So, after the Vikings sent out their Favre headhunters to plead with him to come back, he’s back. Your five-dollar street-corner tarot reader could have told you that Farve would be wearing a Vikings jersey come fall.

As this saga plays out year after year, I can’t help but think that Favre is becoming addicted to the process.

But there must be a time when the clock runs out on his epical Favrian career, right?

It’s become such a farce that at this point, I can see him shuffling off this mortal coil, only to come back the next year, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, taking snaps to cabana music under the moniker of “Bernie Favre.”

He shall cast himself in “Weekend at Bernie’s 3: Favre throws more interceptions.”

How could you give it anything less than two thumbs up?