I’ve been meaning to cancel my subscription to Sports Illustrated. Do I really need to know what Kristis Yamaguchi’s favorite food to microwave is? No, I do not. (She said “leftovers,” which isn’t even a fucking specific food. What a whore.) But I need something to read while I’m burning 5 calories an hour on the elliptical at the gym. (It does all the working out for you!)

But it’s clear now that I should spend my gym time reading whatever copy of Redbook someone left lying around instead. Because this week’s issue of SI contained a handful of letters to the editor regarding Brett Favre’s retirement that made me want to swallow my own head. And since I had to read this incredible dogshit, you do too.

Watching his play and his life for 17 years, we didn’t just see Brett Favre in that Number 4 jersey. We saw our uncle, our brother-in-law, or our fishing buddy. No, Brett wasn’t the greatest quarterback ever to have played. He was just the greatest GUY to ever play quarterback. We’re going to miss you, Brett.

-Scott Powell, Rexford, NY

I… I can’t even… must fight… homicidal urges…

ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME? YOU MUST BE SHITTING ME. YOU BE OPENING MY MOUTH RIGHT NOW AND SHITTING DIRECTLY INTO IT.

Here’s who Brett Favre was, Scotty. He was a very good, durable quarterback. Many times, you may have enjoyed watching him play the game with great skill and creativity. When he wasn’t throwing more interceptions than any player in league history. Other than that, you, Scotty Powell, KNOW FUCKING DICK ABOUT BRETT FAVRE. He’s a fucking stranger to you. For all you know, he boned your niece back at Southern Miss after hitting the ‘shine bong. YOU AREN’T FUCKING RELATED TO HIM. HE’S NOT YOUR GODDAMN POKER BUDDY. “Oooh, look at Brett! He likes to hunt! And he has stubble! He’s so much like me, it’s scary!” Jesus.

“Do you know Vince Vaughn? Have you ever met him? I feel like we’d really get along well. I just… he seems like a fun guy. I feel like we’d hang together well.”

There’s no tangible evidence that Brett Favre is a better person than Trent Dilfer, Jim Kelly, or hundreds of other people who have played the position. Maybe one day, I pray, we’ll be able to do a blood test for Kindness and Warmth. But, until that day, KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF.

But wait. There’s more.

People would laugh when I said “we” won or lost a game because “You’re not part of the team. You didn’t win or lose.” But I always felt like Brett Favre played for me, the fan, so, yes, we did, win and lose together. Every emotion I felt, I felt with him. Brett, enjoy your retirement. We love you, respect you, and, most of all, we will miss you.

-Anna Garcia, Arbuckle, CA

Actually, Anna, the people laughing at you were on to something. For you see, Brett Favre signed a contract with the Green Bay Packers that stipulated he play football in exchange for money and possible health benefits. It’s in writing. I SWEAR. I’m quite sure Favre was pleased to see fans happy with a Packer victory. Know who else felt the same way? EVERY OTHER PLAYER ON THE TEAM. “Omigod! He won that game just for me!” “Omigod! He felt sad after a loss! I felt the exact same way!” “Omigod! He’s jumping up and down after a touchdown! I DO THAT!”

Indeed. Amazing.

The NBA will never replace Michael Jordan, and the NFL will never replace Brett Favre.

-Craig Earl, North Logan, Utah

Actually, Craig. They replaced him well before he retired. Ever watch Tom Brady or Peyton Manning play quarterback? They’re just like Favre, only they don’t throw 500 ill-advised, back-breaking interceptions a year! Who knew you could have your cake and eat it too?

Do you know what’s happening here? Brett Favre has officially become just like fucking Barbaro. A bunch of retard fans, easily swayed by the “special” status bestowed upon Favre by the media, have begun making all sorts of baseless emotional connections with him. He was more than a quarterback! He was a family member! He attended my wedding in spirit! We have imaginary children together! Our lives are incredibly intertwined!

Enough already. You didn’t know Brett Favre, and he didn’t know you. He played for the team you liked and he was good at it. So much so that he became your favorite player. That’s neat. But you wouldn’t have known him any better if he had been a fucking horse. You admired him from afar. That’s it.

If that isn’t enough for your emotional needs, buy a fucking dog.