Dear Mr. Favre,
As the writer of a prominent sports blog, I have watched the last three years of your career with due diligence.
I sympathized with you when it seemed as if the Green Bay Packers were pushing you out of the door in favor of Aaron Rodgers. The Packers, the very team that you had laid your body on the line each and every day for 16 seasons, seemed to not want you any more. That's tough to deal with, especially for an all-time great.
So you said your goodbyes and headed back home to your swamp in Mississippi. We started planning your parades and sculpting your Hall of Fame bust.
But then you pulled a 180 and came back to the NFL...to play for the New York Jets? What the hell was that all about? The Jets?! If you wanted to sell your soul to the devil, you could have just opened up a chain of Favre's Chicken N' Biscuits restaurants.
Regardless, the season ended without a playoff berth, due in large part to mistakes you made (and the Dolphins kicking the hell out of you in the season finale), and you retired once more. You even had to have off-season surgery for all the punishment you took.
Once again, back to the swamp. But you didn't stay this time either, did you?
Nope. You joined the Minnesota Vikings, a team that's been one of the biggest rivals of the Green Bay Packers for decades...a team they still play in their division twice a year.
To add insult to injury, most of your old Packer fan base turned on you.
Which, by the way, I can appreciate the whole "I'll show you that I still have it!" mantra that must have been the fuel behind your SECOND return. But going to your long-time division rival to play against your former team is really emotionally crippling to your fans. Isn't it, Jason Taylor?
Still, you had a pretty darn good season. You made it all the way to the NFC Championship game, but alas, an interception that you threw cost the team the game and the trophy.
NOW. We've finally arrived at this YEAR.
You came back...again...to the Vikings, with the specific purpose of winning the whole damn thing. (After having ANOTHER off-season surgery and having the distinction of being the only player/grandfather in the NFL)
You led the team to a horrible 3-5 start, which compounded with the fact that you almost went undefeated last year with relatively the same players, makes it look twice as bad. You got the coach fired after an embarrassing 31-3 lost to those darn rival Packers on national television. Then came out allegations that you were texting pictures of your penis to a woman from the Jets organization. Then you got whacked on your shoulder causing you to have numbness in your hand and end your streak of 297 consecutive starts. And finally, with three games left to play, your team has officially been eliminated from playoff contention.
Woof, deep breath.
It is for all the aforementioned details of the last three years of your life, that I strongly and passionately urge you, to go away.
Don't even bother retiring or anything, just disappear.
In a matter of 36 months, you have managed to somehow completely tarnish a first ballot HOF career without the help from any performance enhancing drug rumors. Your life has become a complete and utter joke with a storyline that's staler than any daytime television.
You can't win the Super Bowl anymore and you've set the Vikings back at least three years from contention (which I'm sure Adrian Peterson will be happy about).
Go back to Mississippi, put on your wrangler jeans, and never speak publicly again.
And in your specific case, no texting either. You've lost that privilege as well.
Sincerely,
The Studly Pastures Writer
