Ask Brett! Volume 9

Danny Albertson: Here we are, back from the ancient, backwood lands of Kiln, Mississippi, and back in the cozy confines of the luscious Lush For Life Headquarters in Tampa. I am once again blessed to have the luxury of spending a few small moments with none other than the one and only, the Immaculate Brett Favre. Much has happened since the two us shared a warm Milwaukee’s Best on your John Deere, Brett. How have you been?
Brett Favre: Quite frankly, life has been shit, lately, Danny. Worthless as a rotted gasket on the wrong side of a potbelly pig’s noodle in a farmhouse gangbang.
DA: Not sure what you mean. What’s been the problem?
BF: For starters, the ol’ management in Green Bay’s suckin’ the grease outta a toothless hooker’s gums. I made it clear I wanted that colored fella Randy Moss on my team as my split end. Them sunsabitches wouldn’t know a Lombardi Trophy if it came up and gave ‘em a stiff slammer jammer in their ol’ tail pipe. And meanwhile, that bastard Aaron Rodgers is still tryin’ to get my playbook Cliff’s Notes. That sumbitch shoulda been traded to Oakland fer ol’ Moss so we get a dern championship ‘round here.
DA: Why do the team executives fail to listen to you, Brett? Don’t they know, like we all do, or at least I do, that Brett knows best?
BF: Well, shit. I guess not. I am Green Bay. I am football. I am America. I’m every rosy-colored perfectly packaged dream ever imagined. If you don’t listen to me, you askin’ for some serious hurtin’.
DA: If life in football is so bad, then why don’t you just hang it up and retire? Go out on your own terms instead of on your back with a shattered knee and in need of reconstructive hip surgery.
BF: I could never do that. My fans need me and this country needs me. In this time of uncertainty and confusion, the world needs something, and someone, they can believe in. I provide that to all of my adoring hordes of mindless followers.
DA: On another note, what is your opinion of the current Nextel Cup race? Who do you like?
BF: I tell ya, I always like to side with ol’ Junior. I never like to bet against DEI and Junior. That ol’ bastard Waltrip sure can race his freggin’ Chevy ‘round that sumbitch fast as a sumbitch. I can’t stand ol’ Matt Kenseth and his stupid face, and that Juan Pablo Montoya has gotta go. Someone really should step up and put that greasy bastard outta his misery. How dare he drive the 42 car and not be ashamed of himself.
DA: Who is worthy of driving the 42?
BF: Pat Tillman is the 42 and no one else is even worthy of his greatness. Except me, for obvious reasons.
DA: Not even, say, Jackie Robinson. No one wears the number 42 in all of baseball for what he did for the game and the progression of civil rights.
BF: No comment.
DA: What about all this speculation that Tiger Woods is in fact the greatest golfer the world has ever known?
BF: Don’t gimme that bleedin’ heart crap. Ol’ Jack Nicklaus would wipe the floor with him and any of these other garden variety make-believin’ golfers.
DA: Well, Brett, that’s about all the time I’ve got for you today. Before I let you go, how is your family?
BF: I’m glad you asked. My wife’s breast cancer has resurfaced in her other breast and we’re probably going to have to chop it off. Ol’ Doc said she’d have to have some surgery and some chemo, but I told him I could just lop it off in the ol’ shed with my granddaddy’s machete. They don’t make steel like they used to, sure enough. My mother has heart and brain cancer. My sister had her leg removed after fallin’ down some stairs. One of my daughters lost an eye last week and my brother-in-law lost his arm to match his amputated leg. You’ll hear all about it in my exclusive primetime featured interview on SportsCenter for the next six weeks.
DA: Sounds good to me. There’s no such thing as too much Brett.



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