An Open Letter to Brett Favre: Cross Your Body and Hope to Die

Hey Brett,

Just a note to say I'm so glad you’re off the bubble for the Houston Texans.  You wouldn't want to go there anyway.

By the way, I’m not a big Schaub guy, although I went to the same school as him. He was the greatest thing to happen to the ‘hoos since Frank Quayle lead Virginia to a 7-3 season in 1968. (The next year, as the 113^th pick, he produced 350 all-purpose yards for Denver, and that was all she wrote.) He was last seen running through a career in celebrity real estate. 

Of course, the ‘hoos also had "help, help-me" Ronde and Tiki Barber.  And you could throw in Ahmad Brooks.

But here’s four reasons I was glad you didn’t go to Houston:

1. Your Honda walking legs are not ready yet, and could you actually roll out in those things?  Plus, I don’t see how the league approves that crotch and tail part of it. But maybe.
2. People were going to say, "what’s he doing out there?  This is like the traveling circus with Madame Clofullia." (That was the hairy eight-year-old girl with a two-inch beard.)
3. Also, I didn’t want to hear Jim Rome calling all clones to say you’re a grandfather. I can’t stand that. And would you have a senior moment on say 3rd-and-long?  Any long down in fact? I couldn't stand that. 
4. Were you gonna wanna hear every Dick and Harry newscaster on NPR bringing up Deanna’s support for the Mississippi Personhood Amendment.  The booze and broads are one thing, but you don't want to get into conception and God and all that stuff. 

On the other hand, if you'd been No. 4 for the Texans, how bad could it have been?  Not any worse than a Rick Perry debate.   And need we bring up The Christian Torpedo; on your death bed you’d do better than him. 

All that aside, I would have said, go for it.  Of course we want to see you do it once more. And what the hell, it’s only half a season. 

My question is, am I ever, ever, ever going to forgive you for throwing a ball—across the body, how many times do we have to say this, across the body—in the arms of Tracy Porter, who went after that like a mother hugging a returning Vet.  Promise us you’ll never do that again and we’re behind you 100 percent.  

Hey, what about the Colts? 

Paul