Dear Brett Favre
You have taken a proverbial crap on those of us who fantasize about you. And we, the Housewives with Fantasies? Are not happy.
It all started in Green Bay. We didn’t really care about you in Atlanta. Just saying. But in Green Bay? H-O-T. That whole Lambeau Leap thing? Very sexy. Charming and manly with a hint of little boy excitement. Your enthusiasm? Rushing the endzone to tackle your receivers when they caught a TD pass? Someone get me a fan. And I don’t mean the painted face kind.
For years we watched, cheered, panted and fantasized. Thank you.
The sobbing. On television. You remember. When you took a month off of football and declared it a retirement? Gross. The whole thing. Indecision and tears? Not sexy.
But? We Housewives with Fantasies were willing to overlook that. Because? You are hot. We told ourselves you were sensitive and we like that in our men. You mow your own lawn for pigskins sake. We could overlook a few tears.
You were back. Sort of. You couldn’t decide. We endured HOURS of commentary. The Favre Watch. Would he? Wouldn’t he? Holy nauseating media coverage batman. And just as we were about to shut the television off and proclaim you the biggest pile of insecure goo we had ever seen in our lives? A photo of your hotness would flash on the screen. And just like that? We were still your HWFs.
We endured the new uniform. The Jets? Whatever. We were giddy to still be watching you on Sundays. We cheered for you on the field. And? While waiting in carpool with nothing but time on our hands and thoughts of you mowing your lawn in your Wranglers while riding your John Deere, shirtless…ahem. Where was I? Crying? Retirement? Oh. That’s right. The Jets.
We endured the new team. And? You did pretty damn well there. That last interception? Heart. Breaking. We wanted you to win the Superbowl that year. Stick it to those assholes in Green Bay who thought you were a used up has been. We wanted to watch you ride off into the sunset on your John Deere, Superbowl ring on your middle finger flipping off those that didn’t believe. But alas? It was not to be.
And that is were it all started to fall apart. Purple and yellow? Not your color. And? You are getting old man. It is all starting to feel a little, how do I want to say this? Pathetic and needy? Yes. Pathetic and needy. Also. Pathetic and needy are not sexy. EVER. So? You can understand how some of us faithfuls started to allow our minds to wander in the direction of Tom Brady. Yes?
We asked very little of you over the years. You know. Be a man. Remind us of cowboys. Remain Wrangler tough. Was that so hard?
Speaking of hard. What the hell with the sexting of your penis? DUDE. A couple of things I think I should share with you here. ONE? Penis photos? Not sexy. EVER. Why do you not know this? Second. If you are going to send photos of your manliness, you might first want to do a little prep work next time. If you know what I mean.
Also? Nothing says fantasy bubble burst like a cheating husband. I heard your wife, who is a breast cancer survivor and mother of your two beautiful daughters, talking about the whole disgusting affair on television. She said she was handling this situation with faith and religion. Lucky for you I am not your wife. The only religious way in which I would be handling your indiscretions is by beating your stupid ass over the head with a bible.
One final thing and I will be finished. Football? A contact sport. You? Are getting old. The Brett Favre Watch is no longer will he play. Instead our weekly watch is what will he fracture, pull, strain this week. Because every week? It’s something. The elbow. The fractured foot and then? This:
Really? Being taken off in a fetal position? For a few measly stitches? *shakes head in fantasy disappointment*
It is no longer fun to watch you. It hurts. Every hit. It hurts. You need to stop this madness. Please. We HWFs are begging you. Get out. Find a new career. Stop being so needy. Go to therapy. Whatever it takes. BUT STOP DESECRATING OUR FANTASIES. Please.
Housewives with Fantasies