Dear Brett Favre,

Fuck you. FUUUUUUCCKKK you and your “off again on again off again” revolving door retirement, and you packing your old ass off to the New York Jets. Because now? Now I gotta deal with this kid:

Back in happier times

That’s him during a tour of Lambeau Field, after I drove the 3.5 hours from Chicago so he could attend the Junior Power Pack Experience. You know, that event for the young fans where a couple rookies draw the short straw to meet the kids, and where your stupid backwater face has probably never been seen. That’s right, Brett, I said we drove from Chicago. I was born and raised here in the home of, as you well know, the Chicago Bears, whose fans hate you and the Packers’ guts with the intensity of a thousand suns that swallowed up a thousand other suns that had swallowed 10 million gallons of hot sauce. But because of the bad influence of one of his cheese eating expatriate friends at school along with your swamp boy “Aw, shucks, I’m just a lil’ ol’ football player” charm, he decided to betray his poor father and proclaim to me that he’s “one of [your] biggest fans”. I felt like Strom Thurmond after his youngest daughter told him she had fell in love with one of them colored fellas.

Has anybody seen my son? He’s the one wearing the Brett Favre jersey.

But, since I try to be a supportive father, I gassed up the car and we headed out across the land of pasties and cow shit for our final destination, The Frozen Tundra.

Some things I learned while driving through your former home away from home:

1. The money grubbing whores of the Wisconsin State Police love to slap Illinois drivers with hundreds of dollars in fines just because they inadvertently happen to be going 21 miles per hour over the speed limit.
2. The Bong Recreation Area is not as much fun as it sounds.
3. There are no fascist formicidae in St. Nazianz, which was confirmed — quite rudely, I might add — by the gas station clerk whom I asked.
4. As much as visitors will be tempted to, and no matter how exciting it seems it may be especially after seeing luring signs strategically placed every half mile, do not, I repeat, DO NOT stop at the Wisconsin Maritime Museum. I would tell you why, but my therapist says I should put it behind me.

So after traversing that mind numbing landscape for several hours, we roll into the “city” of Green Bay. We ate at your overpriced steakhouse ($80 for dinner, Brett?) where I was served a meal containing no less than 18,000 calories. Given that Wisconsin is not exactly known for its overabundance of aerobics instructors, I think you’ve done the citizens of that state a disservice. And how do you repay them for their clogged arteries? You stab them in the back.

Emulating his former hero

You couldn’t just bow out gracefully, teaching kids the meaning of loyalty and the importance of keeping an overinflated ego in check. No, you had to make up for the fact that you’re a big cry baby and try to prove to the world that you can still get an erection in that tiny penis of yours. It’s not like you had to take much of a principled stand — the Packers were going to pay you $20 million to DO NOTHING but hang out with your hot wife, and root your daughters in one place where they can call home.

Curly Lambeau says, “Get the fuck out of here, Favre.”

I was forced to watch your Jets pre-season debut last Saturday as my son sat there with a dejected look on his face wondering if this was really happening. I just want to congratulate you on making the move to the only team whose jersey is a suckier shade of green. How did it feel down on the field knowing that football fans across the entire Midwest were hoping you would suffer a debilitating knee injury? Nice loss, by the way, and that bit at the end about how just weeks before you were doing yard work and spending time “[throwing] a little bit with kids at the high school” was inspirational bullshit that had David Axelrod taking notes. Save it for your next 3 retirement speeches.

Stick a crawdad up your ass,
Prescott

P.S. In no language on Earth is “Favre” pronounced /ˈfɑrv/.

Bookmark to: