The whole "aw-shucks I play the game like a kid" bullshit wore out with me very early on. I never understood the weekly suck-a-thon the mainstream media (ESPN, Peter King, John Madden, etc) had for the guy every goddamn season. Never mind all the interceptions this anal fissure threw. And all the times he absolutely killed his teams in the playoffs with his asinine "gunslinger" approach that made the Woody Paige's of the world cream their underoos. Lost in his entire shitstain of a career was the fact that the guy was addicted to pain killers for a long long time, yet called an Iron-Man of the game. Any other athlete in any other sport would have been crucified by the World Wide Leader. But because it's St. Brett, he gets a pass. Fucking deer hunting shitbag. And there is, of course, his inability to call it quits. Which is the sole reason he was able to break any of Dan Marino's records.
The will he-won't-he bullshit he put us through every off-season, after every tearful retirement announcement, seemed to suck the very life out of football every year. The guy is the biggest narcissist I've ever seen in sports. And that's a list that includes Terrell Owens and Dennis Rodman.
So it's fitting that the last sad image of Brett's career came at the hands of our Miami Dolphins blowing his shit up, and ending his dream season with the Jets. Because, apparently, he made it official today by telling the Vikings he's staying retired. Until, of course, he has a press conference where he announces that he'll be having a press conferene where he might announce that he's coming back.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, fuck you with a snowplow, Brett Favre! Fuck you with a rusty cheese grater from Wisconsin. And fuck you with a deer carcass. All simultaneously, if possible.