Before this whole Favre-to-the-Vikes business blew up last week, there was one small piece of news that went unnoticed, due to its seeming lack of significance. Mike Florio of PFT reported that Deanna Favre flew to Green Bay on her own, without her husband in tow. For unknown reasons. What was Deanna doing back in the Brett’s old stomping grounds? The answer will shock and disturb you, as we have at last unearthed a transcript of exactly what occurred.
Deanna: I… I don’t know where else to turn. I feel so lost. My husband continually says he wants to spend more time with us. Yet, when push comes to shove, he always ends up running away back to the game. It’s as if he only loves me when there’s no one else around to love him. I feel so isolated. So alone. I feel you’re the only person who can help me…
Goth Aaron Rodgers: We are ALL isolated, Mistress Deanna. We are ALL alone. Our mother’s bellies are split, and we spill out into the world’s cold, dead grip. Bloody viscera and waxy white vernix flowing out in our wake. WE ARE EXCRETED INTO LIFE, SHIT OUT OF A GAPING PUSSY SPHINCTER. Pre-digested.
You were right to come to me. I too know what it is like to be victim of one Brett Favre, Eater Of Souls. Your husband is nothing more than a daemon made flesh. A skinless, hoofed daemon. With acid-tipped fangs and a never-ending need to feast upon our entrails with his forked penisjaw. He takes and takes and takes, his appetite never wavering. Feeding off of us. Nursing on our hearts. He is a parasite of love, turning our affections into crimson red daemoncum. When your husband orgasms, a thousand children die of cholera half a world away. Blood-tinged shit pouring from their orifices.
Oh, he’s like a kid out there, all right. A kid who’s actually a bloodjaculating cumdaemon.
Deanna: I may not have put it that strongly. But I do feel like Brett is the one who gets to have a real life while I toil at home with the kids. I feel like a satellite revolving around him. Even when he IS home, he’s out in the yard half the time.
Goth Aaron: That’s because your husband is a Land Rapist.
He soils the soil. He plows the land just as a Thai sex tourist plows babies.
Deanna: Or he’s out hunting deer…
Goth Aaron: And what does that tell you? Our most delicate and innocent of creatures. And what does your husband like to do to them? He likes to pierce them with hot metal and leave them for dead in the frozen wood. He is a hunter all right. A hunter of innocence. His only target is your joy. Bambi is his for the raping.
Deanna: I just wish there were a way to get through to him. To make him sit up and take notice of me.
Goth Aaron: There is, Mistress Deanna. I, too, once felt neglected here. I, too, knew what it was like to feel as if your husband’s goal was to cast his shadow across the entire landscape, enveloping us all in the cold, wet darkness of his hubris. Suffocating us. Wrapping around our necks until our guts have been choked out.
Deanna: That’s just it. I feel like we’re always in his shadow.
Goth Aaron: There’s a way out. I know the secret. The only way to escape the shadow of the daemon, IS TO BECOME THE SHADOW. Embrace the darkness, Mistress Deanna. Embrace the black, and soon the world will see you as you truly are.
Join me. Together, we shall join hands in unholy matrimony, and pledge our allegiance to the Dark Lord of Nothingness. We’ll also watch lots of horror movies and tell people we enjoy them in an ironic fashion. And we can do each other’s nails.
Deanna: I don’t know. I don’t know if I can do that. What about the kids? What about our life back home?
Goth Aaron: What life back home? You said it yourself. Your family is a thick gray tumor, expanding into your cavities. They possess you. Colonize you. JOIN ME. I have a Misfits t-shirt ready for you.
Deanna: I can’t.
Goth Aaron: You must.
Deanna: I can’t.
Goth Aaron: You must. I played quite well last year and every statistical model says our team was far better than our record indicated. NO BLACKHEARTED DAEMON DENIES THIS. EMBRACE THE SHADOWS, MISTRESS DEANNA. WALK WITH ME INTO THE NETHERWORLD…
Deanna: Oh! Oh, Aaron!
Goth Aaron: Deathcrawler. When I’m in full makeup, you can call me Deathcrawler.
Deanna: Oh, Deathcrawler! I can’t… must… resist…
Goth Deanna: The world is SHIT. A festering blackhead on the withered nipple of the universe. And man is nothing more than Satan’s worker ant. There is no sun. There is no joy. There are only the violent cries of the lambs.
Goth Aaron: Yes, yes that’s it!
Goth Deanna: And Brett Favre is nothing more than a bloodjac… what was it?
Goth Aaron: A bloodjaculating cumdaemon.
Goth Deanna: A bloodjaculating cumdaemon. Satan with stubble. Lucifer in Wranglers. I don’t want to live in a world that allows my husband to grin his way into violating the ground, and devouring the auras of all in his wake. He is a usurper of identity. He is a thick, jagged stab wound in my pussy. Oh, high priest of sin! Take me away from the living death of his nefarious grip!
Goth Aaron: I shall, Mistress Deanna. I shall!
(puts on black condom)
Now, let us begin The Baptism Of Emptiness. Let me take my earrings off real quick…
I want more like this!
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