What, do you think your life is like an episode of “Guiding Light?”  You think we have nothing better to do with our time than monitor your current level of interest in playing in the NFL like it’s a goddamn terrorist alert meter?  Come back, don’t come back.  You go back and forth more often than Ron Jeremy.

And I’m not even from Green Bay, or Wisconsin, or even the “heartland.”  I’m not a cheese head, a provolone enthusiast, a muenster fanatic, or even a cheese dog eater (hot dogs, you sick f*cks).  Hell, I don’t even like cheese!  Just kidding.  Come on, who doesn’t like cheese?

I’m just sick of your sh*t, Brett Favre!  I’d rather watch 20 news reports on Michael Vick drowning his 10-month-old poodle than have to listen to another one of your press conferences about “Oh, I’m retiring” or “I’m not retiring” or “Maybe I’m retiring” or “I’m not retiring but I feel like crying anyway.”

I’ve already blogged about your waffling ass eight times this summer and I thought I was f*cking done!  But, then you pull this:  “Um, yeah I don’t feel like playing this year so I, Brett Favre, am officially retiring.”  Only, to hear weeks later that this was a done deal all along and that you just didn’t want to go through the riggers of a full training camp.

Yeah, you seem like a nice enough guy but F*CK YOU AND THE WRANGLER JEANS YOU RODE IN ON!  I hope your 57-year-old arm breaks off when you try to throw a screen pass, you decrepit, old son of a b*tch!  I hope the next time you’re sacked all the brittle bones in your body turn to dust, you arrogant self-centered motherf*cker!  This blogger is done!  Done with Brett Favre!  And no, it’s not just because I was fired three hours ago.  Hoo-ray football!  Hoo-ray beer!