Hey Brett! Fuck your Mom

Hey you. Yeah you, retarded hick boy. I'm talking to you. I am somewhere between drunk and hungover from tailgating right now so I may not be thinking that clearly. But there's something I want to say to you: Eat a bag of cancerous dicks.

Maybe I am not making myself clear. I want you to consume all sorts of unthinkably disgusting and harmful things so that you might have some idea what it is like to watch you one-arm gunslings to the goddamn Dolphins all day. Remember when you put on that green jersey this afternoon? It was right after the bowl of grape nuts and the massage and before you and Mangenius decided to stick your fists up the metaphorical anuses of thousands of fans and then extend your middle fingers. Yea, that jersey. Everyone else on your team was wearing the same color, and that's the color you were supposed to aim your passes at.

Listen Grizzly McAmerica'sPlayer, this Jets season was hard for me. I had already turned against you at least a year ago. I understand why you have been so popular. You had that down-home-aww-shucks-mister-I-juss-wanna-play-me-some-football thing going. You seemed like a nice enough guy and your dad died and whatever. You inspired people like Forrest Gump and Corky from that show I don't remember. Everyone thought, "Hey if this monkey-brained fucker can be good at football, maybe there's hope for us all." I get it, but I wasn't on board.

For one, Peanut had already shoved the goddamn Favre DVD down my throat, so I was set. Did I need to know about your upbringing in Kiln and how your Uncle Cletus molested you when you were nine? No. Did I make up one of those facts? No.* Not to mention the freaking media acted like you were motherfuckin Mother fuckin Teresa or some shit. I hadn't realized that you were the only football player in the history of feet and balls who LOVED football. You were a gunslinger. You played like a kid out there. You played with the passion of a million suns burning on the summer solstice. Fuck that. You were never any more special than the media made you out to be. You were like a gunslinger who occasionally misfired and shot his friends in the femoral artery. You played like a kid who was too stupid to realize that crippling interceptions were bad for your team.

So obviously, Brett, I was already sort of heading down the road of not liking you. These are not new opinions of mine, but even if I was getting sick of you I still had a soft spot I guess. I mean you were Brett Favre! And then you pulled the retirement schtick for a couple of years. Are you? Aren't you? What's going on with Brett? You basically said "Hey, ESPN et al., please stroke my cock while I hold hostage the organization that has paid me exorbitant amounts of money to sometimes successfully throw an oblong ball at massively-more-athletic black guys. And remember it is only because I LOVE THE GAME that I am so torn about whether or not to take steroids** and accept some more millions to be slobbered on all over again by you sycophantic fucks."

So I was done with you basically. I appreciated that you were a great player. A hall-of-famer if that means anything in football. You won a pretty memorable super bowl and lost a more memorable one. But that was it. The gunslinging and the all-American plays-like-a-kid Kornheiserisms were grating enough without you actually acting like a dick. And then you pulled the shit again this offseason and Ted Thompson grew a pair and said "Hey Brett! Fuck your Mom. We're going with Rodgers." Good for you Ted. I liked that, I agreed with that. I wanted you end up on the Vikings so that even Packers fans would have to root against you and grudgingly accept the fact that you were a dick. And then what did you do...

You up and got traded to the J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets. The Jets. My Jets. My football team with its mediocre history and its mild expectations. The Jets, who could basically be ignored by the media, chill out in the Giants' shadow, and hopefully make it to their biannual playoff loss. You fucker. Now tickets were twice as pricey and your jerseys were selling like hotcakes (great investment Timmy and Plunkett) and everyone was watching the Jets and picking them for the playoffs and so forth. Every story related to the NFL was about how you were doing and how Aaron Rodgers was doing filling in those titanic-sized shoes of yours. Every MNF broadcast was Tony Kornheiser talking about you, no matter how tangential or inane. It was like he was playing that game from Super Troopers where the guy had to say "Meow" but instead he had to say "Favre" and then wait to see how long the football viewing publice would turn on him. Basically, you fucked shit up for me.

Now I'm living down in DC, Brett, so I didn't get to watch many of your games. I could phase you out as the Mets collapsed, and my college career collapsed, and other shit was happening. And then you had that game against the Patriots on a Thursday night. And I checked you and the Jets out down at Continental and there was a Pats fan and I got caught up in the game and the Jets won! In overtime! We stuck it to those Boston fucks! This was going to be our year! I thought, hey maybe I can get behind this Jets team despite the presence of Favre. This could be the best team I've seen since Vinny Testaverde was throwing shotputs over the middle to Keyshawn. The very sadness that is having Testaverde and Keyshawn as your best football memories MADE me want to get beind this Jets team. And then you beat the undefeated Titans. Best team in the AFC! NY-NY Superbowl! Well that's what ESPN was saying, and although I saw that that was pretty dumb I really thought this was a hell of a team and maybe I can learn to like this Favre character after all. And then...

Look, you just fucking sucked, ok. There's no point breaking down every game or each mistake. You fucking sucked and if Dick Jauron and JP Losman hadn't already gotten their checks from Roger Goodell to keep you in the playoff hunt you would have lost five straight games to finish the year. That is fucking weak in and of itself, but when you lose to the Niners and Seahawks and Broncos (no offense Pank)...c'mon. You collapsed, and that is hard for me right now. There is a big difference between being a Pirates or a Raiders fan, for instance, and being a Mets and Jets fan. The former people know going in that their team sucks. The might make a random signing or two and glean some false hope, and then the season begins and they watch and they say "Oh yeah, it's the Pirates/Raiders/Whoever. We suck. Now I will go be a productive and useful member of society." The Mets and Jets, however, play pretty well. They do enough to stay competitive year-in year-out and keep the fans interested. And you watch them and they're playing pretty well...hey, look, they're leading the division! All they have to do is win a couple games against some crappy teams and they're in the playoffs. And then they shit the bed. They just have explosive fountainous bouts of diarrhea, and it's all over the pillowcases and the headboard and everything. And I feel like I have wasted so much time and thought and money on these fucking teams, and then they just throw on some steel-toed boots and kicks me in the nuts as a thanks for all that.

But it's worse today, Brett. And it's worse because it's your fault. You sucked and you dragged the Jets down, and Chad Pennington gets a home game against the Ravens next weekend because you were horrible. And you are not a Jet. This is not some TrueYankeeism-type nonsense I'm talking about. This is the Jets. They are the Mets. They are the second team, the overlooked team, the team that sneaks up on you and wins and you go how the fuck did they win. They are an underdog. But, Brett you are the ultimate fucking overdog. You can't sneak up on anyone because at all times you are followed by a retinue of bootlickers with cameras and microphones. You never belonged on my team and I never even liked you any way. And then you were here and you got my hopes up, and you dashed them.

YOU did that, Brett. You ruined the whole goddamn season, and you're gonna do it again next year for some similar-minded sports fan in Buffalo or Seattle or somewhere when you unretire again. You dick.

*Actually yes.

** So Roger Clemens was pretty clearly cheating. He went to the Astros and still had the heat and had a sub-2 ERA at the age of 42 or so. And people were sort of talking about this way before the Mitchell Report. But Brett Favre looks completely and utterly washed up for a couple years, comes back with the fastball, and has one of his best years ever leading the Packers to the NFC Championship at the age of 38 and I hear nothing. Good thing only baseball has a steroid problem, because if NFL players took steroids I know who I'd suspect.