bill-swift - October 13, 2010
When I was a kid, we didn't have all these newfangled cell phones and text messagers to send out our dirty self-portraits, we had to do it the old-fashioned way. I'll never forget the look on the face of Ms. Proust, my ninth grade English teacher when I dropped a blue-pen-ink drawing of my own nude-model-bodied 90-lb self on her desk with a shiny apple and a smile that said, "It's go time, Ms. P". Nor will I forget the feeling of dread when she showed this very same self-portrait to the school principal, the guidance counselor, psychiatrist, and my parents. Still, for all the beatings, chores, and forcible Freudian analysis I endured thereafter, I know, deep down, past the series of restraining orders, Ms. P dug my rocking Papermate-pen nudes.
Just as Brett Favre surely knew how much New York Jets sideline reporter, Jenn Sterger, must've dug his digitally-transmitted dong. You can almost here his Southern drawl with a 'Oh, yeah, you know you love it, sweetheart' as he pressed SEND on his Sidekick. What sane woman wouldn't want that bad boy popping up on her PDA? Score, Brett, score.
Photo credit: Splash News