Many readers graciously have offered their opinions regarding our country's recent supernatural disasters:
Firstly -- President Bush is to blame for the tragedy in New Orleans.
Secondly -- President Bush is NOT to blame for the tragedy in New Orleans.
Thirdly -- Pets are people, too.
Fourthly -- Brett Favre had a really good excuse for rushing -- not to the aid of his hurricane-stricken family -- but for yardage in his team's final preseason football game.
Oh, oblong-inflated egos, hast thou forsaken thee?
More Outside the Box columns
Woefully, I endured the wrath of Mayor McCheesehead, who currently resides in a pre-declared disaster zone also known as my 17-year-old son's bedroom where a Brett Favre jersey hangs heroically above the mutant clutter, affixed to the wall with two thumbtacks in a testament to his testosterone-inspired, teenage ingenuity.
In the ultimate act of maternal contrition, I offered to spend an entire NFL Sunday wearing my son's cheesehead, just in case he locates it amid the twisted rubble of his toxic wasteland, I mean bedroom. Doing the math, I figure the chances of that happening are equal to or greater than the odds of FEMA actually answering their toll-free hot line. (beep ... beep ... beep ... )
Two of my hormonally challenged heathens are diehard Brett Favre fans. The youngest favors Atlanta quarterback Michael Vick. On Monday night, sibling battle lines were drawn, fantasy football's seasonal fate in question:
"Brett Favre is a fumbler!"
"Oh yeah .