A Personal Message From From Aaron Rodgers to Brett Favre

Brett, I know I’ve said a lot of unkind things about you over the years, but I never meant any of it. Seriously, I’ve always looked up to you. I mean, you set the all time touchdown record, and all you had to do was throw it to the wrong team more than any other fucking person on the planet. I can’t tell you how awesome it was to be a first round draft pick sitting on the fucking bench while you heaved passes 40 yards downfield into triple coverage just to “see what would happen.” You have no idea how disappointed I was when I learned you weren’t interested in mentoring me, and that I’d never learn the proper technique for finding the one receiver covered by three guys and making the “how could this have happened?!?” face when someone intercepts my pass. I’m sure that will be a great regret of mine.

Get out of my starter’s spot, you pill swilling, new money piece of white trash. I’m tired of these people kissing your ass. Oh, what’s that Peter King? Brett Favre’s a better quarterback than Tom Brady and Peyton Manning? Oh, hey, while your at it, does his ball sweat have a smokier taste as well, you fucking kiss-ass? It’s time for all of these hacks to get into the Rodge Lodge and see what a real quarterback looks like.

Hey, maybe this will mean more ads for Wrangler jeans, right? Well, that’s got to be exciting for the sister-fucking crowd that wears denim! Hey, maybe now you can add another brand to your extensive sponsorship collection. Why not a blast fishing tour guide company, or a do it yourself meth lab kit? You know, something that speaks to your people. Just because you’ve retired from football to join the professional jorts wearing circuit doesn’t mean that you can’t spread the stink of your high profile hillbilly everywhere, right, you fucking mouth breather?

Oh, and don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine without you, asshole. Gee, what will I ever do now that you’re gone? Oh, I know, maybe I can get a haircut to get rid of this fucking mullet that I had to grow just to convince the fucking team that I could fit in with Wisconsin fans. Of course, that will probably make it tougher for me to resonate with these cross eyed dog fuckers, but hey, I’ll never do that like you did it. What was it you said? People identified with you because everyone knew someone like you growing up? Man, truer words were never spoken; I’ve got a family full of fucking junkies too. Then again, they’re not completely like you; they probably would realize when they’re too old to act like a fucking jackass, you fucking jackass.

Oh, and I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be taking over the signal calling for this team. How will I ever celebrate becoming a staple of the Green fucking Bay community? Maybe I’ll go hit one of the hip clubs around town, like the Denny’s on Main Street, or that barn that makes moonshine one town over! The fun just never fucking stops here! I could even hit a Green Bay strip club! I love that they use local girls; nothing hotter than watching a woman who looks like your mom would if she did nothing but eat Funyuns and smoke cigarettes for a year take her clothes off for you, right?

Shit I hate this fucking middle of nowhere cold as shit Deliverance soundstage.

The only reason I bring any of these fucking wildebeests home to the Rodge Lodge is so that afterwards I can kill them and bury them under the house. It’s not even that I’ve got mental problems; I just don’t want any of my peeps back in California to ever know that I ever touched one of these war-pigs. Ugh, and they all smell like fish oil too. It’s like dipping my junk in a can of rotten salmon. I’m going to cut myself tonight and pray it’s finally deep enough to let me escape this hellhole forever.

In closing, Brett, get your shit, which I assume amounts to a bottle of Percocet and a Nascar wall calendar, and get the fuck out of my locker. Oh, and happy retirement.