“Does anyone have a tissue?”

No one enjoys poking fun at Brett Favre more than me. My dream in college was to found brettfavreisacryingbaby.com, but I knew far too little about web design at that point to make this dream a reality. I thought it was a fantastic idea only because Brett Favre is one of the greatest players of all-time and embarrassingly sensitive. More importantly, I didn’t go forth with it because keeping up with such an endeavor would have cut severely into my borderline alcoholic collegiate drinking schedule due to the insane number of instances I would have had to log of Brett Favre either crying, looking like he’s about to cry, or just generally grimacing with misty eyes. I’m amazed the man never played under Dick Vermeil because those two together could outcry a room full of menopausal women watching Terms of Endearment.

But even I have my limits. Everywhere I go online and every time I turn on ESPN, I see his stupid corn pone mug staring back at me. Will he come back for another season? Will the Packers release him? Will he be granted a trade? Does he still have sensitive teeth necessitating his use of Sensodyne? God, who cares?!

This whole spectacle is so painfully self-indulgent, it makes me want to scream. For the last three years, every Spring we have had to endure endless media coverage speculating about whether or not this is the year Brett will hang up his cleats. And like every self-promoting grandstander, Brett dutifully strings the media along squeezing every bit of media coverage he can out of them.

When he finally retired last Spring and went out openly weeping during one of the most hilarious press conferences I’d ever seen, part of me was sad that one of my go-to targets for ridicule was leaving the spotlight. However, mostly I was just looking forward to a season of not having to hear terms like “gunslinger” and “childlike enthusiasm” every 15 fucking seconds whenever Favre’s name came up. And I, like damn near everyone else on the planet, was tired of watching John Madden, Chris Berman and every other fathead commentator on the planet fall all over themselves to verbally fellate Favre every time his dopey face came into focus no matter how many inexcusable interceptions he threw. Yes, he’s a good player, but give me a break. He’s not Jesus. Good riddance.

Now he’s back, and the media circus has resumed. Enough already! You were a great player, and people love you, but you retired. The Packers are moving on. Be a man. Deal with it. Live with the consequences of your actions. Let the rest of us get the hell on with our lives.

I’d make a joke about you here, but simply writing this has made me too fucking annoyed.

Just please go away. I can’t take anymore. I’m on Favre overload. I’m so emotional. I feel like I might burst. I’m so frustrated, I think I’m gonna cry.

Nah, just kidding. That’s Favre’s racket. I’d like to close with a few words to the principal parties involved here.

To the sports press: Please find something – anything – else to cover. I’m begging you. Even if it’s South African cricket, I can’t handle this stupid drama anymore. I promise to sit through whatever commercials you show if you stop this madness immediately.

To Aaron Rodgers: Sorry, dude. I mean, I’m really sorry. Best of luck to you not pulling a Griese in Green Bay and here’s hoping you have a successful career despite having to sit in this egomaniac’s shadow for the last four years.

To the Packers: Fuck him. He’s under contract with you. You don’t owe him anything. He’s jerked you around. If he wants to come back, let him ride the fucking bench.

And to Favre: “My teeth are sensitive! I have heartburn! I’m addicted to painkillers! My beard is gray! I threw another interception! I’m retiring! I’m not retiring! Trade me! Release me! I’m a gunslinger! Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!”

This is the last time I write about Brett Favre

In the words of one of my former bosses: Eat a bag of hell. You were a great player, but please move on. You’ve overstayed your welcome.