Man, daggone got tell yew bout dat Tony Weenur en dem picshurs of dat boy’s weenus man now whut kinna crazy ol hushpuppy gone be doin sumptin so crazy man. Yall dont be sendin dem weenie snaps unless yew got yerself sum guud apperture en a free hand to wiggel yerself n git the blud flowin. Sum guud shews nevur hurt no one neethur.

Sum folks er sayin, “Hey Britt Farr, why yew wanna sen picshurs o’ Lil Britt Farr to dem perdy ladies wit dem big ol tiddies an der insayshubble app’tites for ‘tention?” Shucks, fool. Ol’ Britt ain’t no paragon of vurchew. I’s just flesh n’ blood. An’ a li’l more flesh down derr. Huh-huh-huh.

So ‘memer to keep on sendin’ dem weeny picshurs to all dem ladies out derr. Dey like’m! S’long as yew ain’t no Congruss-man or no ol’ gunslinger, yew gone doo reel good for ya’self. But don’t gimme any o’dem cee-cees on dem picshurs. Peter Kang don’ take tew kindly o’dat sorta thang.

Dawnaw why all dem ree-porturs gettin awl backup in ol Britt’s craw, but ol Britt daw lyk it much as dem sittie slickurs thinkadoo. Das jus mee bean onnis, now. Ol Britt jus wanna ree habb dat ankul on dat ol porch swing over yonder and git that puppy back inta shape. Obsurv…

/gets on bench

//pushes off with repaired ankle

Ol Coach Childruss came on down he-uh an ee askol Britt haw minnie rips I’s doin eech day. Ol Britt down’t kewnt no rips! Ol Britt wurkit til it feel lack wurk! Thin wee gitonuver tooda kitchin an git summadat Hattiesburg Gaturade: a sweet tee wit extur sweetinur. Mmm, mmm. Ol Britt gunna feel guud aftur dat, an den ee gone round behin da shed and tinkle for bout 45 minit or so. Dat sweet tee feel guud at both inds! Ah!

Da missus tol me, “Naow Britt, you gots to git inta dat noodul o’ yors in make yur minedup bout dat foobaw now.” But tellya da trooth, not e’en ol Britt know whuh heegondoo dis fawl. Ol Britt might play sum Tixis Howldum oer in Tewnicuh, or he maght warsh off dem duckies wit all dat oiwl on em in dat dere Golf. How ken it be golf if its awl wadder?

Ayway, y’all best leeve ol Britt alone til bout two weeks affer trainin kamp done finish. Ol Britt dawn lack dat trainin kamp. All dem colored fellers with dem big peckers don’t make ol Britt feel too guud. Maybe ol Britt ken git sum surgerie on dat part, too.

All duh whirl is gabbin on dat bigol hushpuppy dere LeBon Jane and wut his decissin gunna be. Well you lissin here, whirl, ol’ brittfar gotsta talk turkey to ya: frankly, you don really care none bout dat bassetball foolishness. Wut is da bassetball anyway? Dem tall coloreds runs to and fro on da wood floors what was nice and polish-like. Got no regard for a nice wood floor. Das why brittfar play a sport what got the sense tuh be in tha outdoors on thuh greengas where it fun tuh play in yer Wranglers.

But sumayas still ackin all obsess-like. Dunno why. Ol’ brittfar gunna helps ya, cause he got the horse cents. He know you’s really missin the foobaw and they bassetball tricksters has ya fooled nta recokinnin that you give a flyin cowpie wut LeBon Jane do wit his life. Seems ta me, brittfar gotsta save ya from yaself.

Problem is, brittfar ain’ no idear man. He a man of ackshun. Thas why he turn to sum clever book-lurned Jewfolk ta gin a few up for him. Which ya think will wurk bess to get the attenshun back to brittfar and the foobaw?

Take the USS Alabama out to the Deepwater Horizon site and clog the breach by chucking footballs at it

Accuse Childress of sexual assault.

One uh dese is fittin ta work. Which one it gunna be, whirl? Remember ol’ brittfar is only doin this fer you, not like the no-account schemin’ LeBon feller. He know whuts good fer him, he just gunna go away fer good.

I dunno whut Coach Childruss wus luggin forr in mah throwin moshin. I throw guud! I bin throwin to dem hahh skewl boyz en they guud at kitchen bawls frum ol’ Brittfarr. Wun day cupple weeks ugo ol’ Brittfarr was throwin’ dem bawls wit da boys reel guud. An den ol’ Peedur Keng gon’ cummon down hear ulda tamm en be awl, [in falsetto voice] “Hey there, sexy Bretty. Wanna come punch that ticket to Canton, big boy?”

An den I gitoll embarsed an say, Nossir, Misser Keng, yew is uh perfesshunal jern-o-list, en yew just playin’ widdoll Brittfarr, aincha? But den he jus keepsonnit an he gon be all, “Now now, Bretty baby. Come back to the Mariott and you can stir my sugar.” But he ain’ talkin bout no shuggur. Unless yew talkin bout da shuggur dat an ol’ feller likesa keep in’is butt.

But ol’ Peeder gon make shur Brittfarr git inda Holla Fayma, so I hadta walkit on back too da Mariott. En yeah, ol’ Brittfarr took a big stir on da buttshuggur. Ol’ throwin’ motion dint feel so guud after dat.

An den I wint back to da feeled whure da boys wure, en onuddum ask whut ol’ Brittfarr wuz doin’. Now I din’t tellum bout stirrin dat buttshuggur. Das pri-vit. So ol’ Britt made uppa lil fib en said, Ol’ Brittfarr wuz pumping HGH. En dey ask wuz HGH? I sad I dunno. But den ol’ Britt found out dat da nixt day, da whole teem winnout en got dem sum HGH. Good thang I didn’t tellum bout the buttshuggur or ol’ Peeter woodna bin able to walk for three dadgum weeks.

Dem Vikins shurr got sumpin hangin down out thur crawls, cuzza jus gissin here, but dint dey saydat dissa dedlann togitoll Brittfarr to sann dat auddograff ondat noo kontract? Well, giss wut, y’oll chum buckits. Ol’ Brittfarr ain’t did yet. So booly on dat for uh bit.

Dat ol coot Chilldriss, boy he ain’t got the since Gawd gave uh mean ol’ tick hound in the forst. He thankin he kin put Brittfarr behann dat ol’ kueball an say, “Now Brittfar, yew gotsa makeup dat ol’ gord o’yors an dessade i’yew gon play footbaw this yeer.

Ah ain’t gotsa dessade nuttin. I Brittfarr! I throofer fitty meelyin yars, throofer bout nanny meelyin tuch-dayowns, and only three innercipshuns! Mamma says I ain’t gotta kount all dem innercipshuns iffah down wantoo. En ah down wantoo!

Yer didlann ain’t sheeit, dere, Childriss, ya big ol hushpuppy. If yew gon killoll Brittfarr, yew cummon down heeuh and doo sum killin. But I’ll hunt yew lika meen ol’ smokey bayer been huntin dem fish inna stream. Cept witha big ol’ gun. I’mma git yew, Childriss. Jussa soonis yew put ol’ Brittfarr back on datdere footbaw team!

|img from Pacman Jonesin’|

Yassee dare hushpuppy, daboddys inna mayzin thing. Darezoll kendsuh stuffa gonn onn indere. Wut kinna thins in dere? Welp, dare blood. In dare piss. In dare itty bitty clumps o’stakein rump roast in dere kulled mussels. In dem mussels issa reesin Aykin throwdat dare futbawl o’er dem mountins. Mussels is guud. But er’ry wunce inna bluu muun, Dem mussels go bad.

A mussel’s lot lacka dawg. Sumtime dat dawg luukin reel guud, enyookin rub its bellyin itta git yewa bawl erra stick er maybe sum ol’ panties that dem silly naybors leevin outin da yard. But sumtime dat ol’ dawg don’t wanna hunt, so yew take dat dawg unneruh knaff enemm doktuhs gone fix dat dawg up guud. Cuzza ded dawg meen no playin tamm, no playin tamm meen no rode hay’d, and Issa need my rode hay’d.

S’I gussin dat Coach Childruss gon lookit deesin say, Brittfarr yousa gone beuh Vikin, or he say, Brittfarr, yew needsa play sumwhure else. Aint no ducks offa mah back. Cuz iffee dunt wunt me, I jussa weytin til hee git farred annden Brittfarr go talky da new coach nixt year.

[Office of Mike Tannenbaum, New York Jets general manager. Mike is sitting at his desk as Brett Favre walks in]

Mike Tannenbaum: Hi Brett, come on in and have a seat. So listen, I want you to know that the Jets are truly committed to having you back for 2009.

BRETT FAVRE: Welldatsoll wellinguud derr Mikeybuttah ainso surrabout cumminback cuzimmeen ibeenhere fowrdang monts inna ainseen no guud coonhuntin anuwhure. Endiffderr wonthing Brittfarr wondoo itsgo huntin dem coons.

Mike Tannenbaum: Well, uh, Brett, you know the correct nomenclature is African-American now. I mean, you know, between us whitefolk we can even–

BRETT FAVRE: NO CUMMON DERR yabigol hushpuppy. Coonsin crittersin varmits anna guudoll fishinole. Aingot nunnadat herriNoo Yowrk andiownlee spotiNoo Jerzeegotta bigoll Wappina tracsoot keeppon charjinmee fordda bait. Mighbe sumptin shaydeegonnonn derr, lemme tell ya.

Mike Tannenbaum: Hey, Brett, I totally understand. You’re looking for more of the natural amenities that you enjoyed in Green Bay. And the Jets organization is sensitive to that. So you tell me, what’s it going to take to keep Brett Favre in a Jets uniform for 2009?

BRETT FAVRE: Awcommunderr Mikeydon need nuttinbutta lilmoor tymma thinkuh boudit. Lettoll demoll meedya typespeckuhlatin kinda willie wonnie Brittfarr willie wonnie. Datderr’s guudfer bizniz, lemme tell ya.

Mike Tannenbaum: Brett, we’d really like to avoid that sort of attention this offseason. Now tell me. What does Brett Favre need from the Jets to play quarterback one more season.

BRETT FAVRE: Welluh…

Mike Tannenbaum: Come on, Brett, don’t be bashful.

BRETT FAVRE: Welluh…dat Mangeenee? Heddun thinkoll Britfarr ennuhthinkkit mybeeziur fwee din havoll puppytits assa big dog next year.

Mike Tannenbaum: So you want Mangini gone. That’s great, because I fired him like three days ago.

BRETT FAVRE: Yaddid? Aw dat jus dandy.

Mike Tannenbaum: Indeed. Now what else does Brett Favre want?

BRETT FAVRE: Well [reaches into back pocket], beenthinkinbowt dem yooni forms y’allad lasyeer? Ol’ Brittfarr haddenay deeuh boutdat. Now juslooky addis and telloll Brittwutyathink.

[Brett hands Mike a doctored photo]

Mike Tannenbaum: Wow, this is…this is something…I’ll have to get back to you on this, Brett. I notice that on this jersey, you don’t have a number.

BRETT FAVRE: Naw, seederr? Dassa bigoll possum.

Mike Tannenbaum: You want your jersey number…to be a possum?

BRETT FAVRE: Yessir, frunowwon immabee runninnow datderr tunnelendat bigoll voysgun holler, “Heer’s y’alls quoreback, nummer possum, Brittfarr!”

Mike Tannenbaum: That’s some powerful imagery, Brett. But I’m quite sure the league won’t let your replace your jersey number with a possum.

BRETT FAVRE: Dubble possum den.

Mike Tannenbaum: Brett…let’s just put this one aside for now. What else do you want?

BRETT FAVRE: Well…howbow summadem geesinda lockaruum?

Mike Tannenbaum: Geese? Brett…you can’t hunt geese in the team dressing room.

BRETT FAVRE: Hunnum? Ayduwanna hunnum? Ayjuslike geese. Yewlike geese, doncha?

Mike Tannenbaum: Well, yes, of course! I, uh, even had a pet goose as a child! Such…sanitary creatures.

BRETT FAVRE: Yew foolin. Ol’ Brittfarr knowdattif yew haddiny geesen yewdnoduh singulurfer geeses geese, ya bigoll dummy.

Mike Tannenbaum: Oh…well yes, haha! You got me, Brett. I should have known to put one over on you!

BRETT FAVRE: Wellemme thinkusumudder stuffen allbee fixintecall yewtumorruh?

Mike Tannenbaum: That’s fine, Brett. I’m glad we had a chance to meet. Take care.

[Favre leaves. Woody Johnson, Jets owner, enters]

Woody Johnson: So you got Brett to come back, right?

Mike Tannenbaum: That depends. [shows Woody the photo] How do you feel about double possum?

SEVERAL WEEKS AGO.

MATT MILLEN: Thank you, Joyce. This is Matt. 

VOICE ON THE OTHER END: Heydere yabigol’ hushpuppy howjew liketah gitta bigol’ win’ginst thatthere Grinbay Pecker teem thisuh Sundey?

MATT MILLEN: Sir, can you hang on just one second? (covers receiver) Joyce! I’ve got it! You can hang up now!

OTHER END: Aingonna sithere onminoo walkietalkie toolong soyoo wamme hel-peyoo outdere or nosir, whatzit gonnbee now?

MATT MILLEN: Are you…calling from a walkie talkie?

OTHER END: Well… it’s cordless. 

MATT: Joyce! I can still hear you shuffling papers out there! Hang up the phone!

OTHER END: Seedem Peckers fixin torrundaball atcha but yew keepon runnin atdat whiteboyen yoo gonna gettafyoo tickles’hind dat lynnuh scrimmige lemme tell ya. 

MATT: Sir, Could I get your name, please?

OTHER END: Uh…my name? Name’s Bart.

MATT: Bart?

OTHER END: Yessir, Bart Majkowski.

MATT: Bart, do you have a daytime number where I can…JOYCE! HANG! UP THAT PHONE FOR SHIT’S SAKE! YOU’RE TYPING! RIGHT INTO MY GODDAMN EAR!

OTHER END: Aw, commondere hushpuppy, y’all dunneed tagit steemin likah kittyonna hot tin ruuf dere, lemme tell ya.

MATT: Sir, slow down. What is this about hush money?
 
OTHER END: Cummondere, effeyum fixinta tawkinny slowuriddabe tawkinbackwurs nowyabigg hushpuppy. Yewanna beetdem Peckers ernot?

MATT: Are you calling my pecker a Hush Puppy? Are you attempting to blackmail me?

OTHER END: Well fuggitden. [hangs up]

MATT: Sir, I can’t understand you. Sir? You’re speaking to another human being, not the local critters IN THE FOREST JOYCE HANG UP THAT GODDAMN PHONE OR I WILL CHOKE THE LIFE FROM YOUR BODY! Hello? HELLO!! MOTHERFUCKER!

JOYCE: [walks in] Sir, I think there’s something wrong with the phones!

MATT: OH, YOU THINK?! I OUGHTA JUST…I’m sorry, Joyce. Please forgive me. But I… I can’t help but wonder what that little backwater man was trying to share with me on his walkie talkie. Some of that information, any of it, really, if it were relayed in proper English, could have been the stepping stone to victory that this team, this whole organization, so desperately needs. I don’t know what Bart Majkowski was trying to tell me, but I’m afraid that I just let the promise of certain victory slip from my very fingers.

JOYCE: Oh. 

MATT: …but why do I give a fuck? I’m gonna be here forever!

-Thanks, Danny, or whatever your name was.

Everything in this post before the jump on this post is SFW. After that, you’re on your own. 

JETS PRACTICE FACILITY, LAST WEEK

[team walks in from practice]

Alan Faneca: Good practice, everyone. We’re really gonna be ready for Sunday. 

Eric Barton: Yeah, way to go guys. [gets to his locker] Hey, what’s this bag doing here? Did someone bring me a poorly wrapped gift? 

Brett Favre: Ah, yennow wut Eric isawdat ondastreet innitmameethinka yoo. Yoogunna injoyit, lemme tellya.

Eric: Aw, thanks, Brett. I love this team. I can’t wait to…hey…what’s…what’s in here? Is that a bird?  

Dustin Keller: I checked it. It’s not what you think it is.

Brett: Heyderr rook, yaneedt’bee keepinow demthangsdat dunkonsurnya eryoogunna tay kuwuppin, lemme tellya. 

Eric: [opens bag] AW SHIT MAN, IT IS A DEAD BIRD!

Bird: [doesn't say anything. it's dead]

Eric: [to Dustin] You said it wasn’t a bird!

Dustin Keller: I thought he brought some old Packers jerseys for everyone. You really thought it was a dead bird?

Eric: [to Brett] Why the fuck you stick some dead shit in my locker?

Dustin: I like jerseys. 

Eric: Shut up! 

Brett: Aw, cummonthere Bartyboy, yew justa biggol rube. Dungettall snippety-whippety now. 

Dustin: Don’t open the bag! 

[Eric opens it, dead animal stink permeates the locker room. Everybody laughs.] 

Faneca: Haha, that smells horrible!

Kris Jenkins: That smell is making my stomach curdle! Hilarious!

Lavaerneus Coles: This is way better than my childhood!

Dustin: Damn, Eric, you just got pwned. That means “owned.”

Eric: I KNOW what the fuck it means, cracker! I said Shut Up!

Mike Nugent: Hey, what the fuck is that smell?

Eric: That’s your game, bitch! Go back to your locker and shut up!

Brett: Oh manitellyoo whut, dem whileturkis gonestank tilda cowscumhom instart watchinyerteevee inaint givinupdat clicker, lemme tellya.

Eric: Oh, alright, Brett. You got me this time! Put ‘er there, teammate!

[Brett and Eric shake hands, Brett walks out]

Eric: [seething] Just you wait, you hickass motherfucker, I’m gonna get you back good!

Dustin: Who are you talking to?

Eric: I SAID! Shut yo mouth!

Brett: [coming in from practice] Heythere y’all didreal guudoutdere enpracktiss annaye…fellas?
Read the rest of this entry »

[4th quarter, Jets score a TD to cut San Diego's lead to 18]

Eric Mangini: We’re going for two.

Brett Favre: Nah, cummonthere Coach, duntwewannabe kickin dat bawl gittinusdown buh 17 poinsan gittintoo tuchday-owns inna fielgolen tiedispuppy up?

Eric: You heard me, Hee Haw. Slot left 535 razor monkey.

Brett: Ulright youda boss.

[Runs play, conversion fails, penalty called on defense]

Eric: What the hell happened out there?

Brett: Thempokeyboys wearindemstripeys donecalled penuldyonna deefey-nsin gonnamovdaball up–

Eric: I can see that, you fucking hilljack. Why didn’t you run the play I sent in?

Brett: Aw cummonthere Coach yewknow ol’ Brett dunlikedat monkeyrazor play no more thenna fiddlewit nostrings, lemme tellya.

Eric: I have no idea what you just said, but run the damn play I gave you this time.

Brett: Cummonthere Coach lemmerundat dangballup damiddlen gitdeez twopoin forya.

Eric: Just do it, you hogfucking hick.

Brett: Ulright youda boss.

[Runs play, conversion fails, penalty called on defense]

Eric: Goddammit, whaddaya doin’ out there?

Brett: Heydere Coach Laveranues wannaknow whywekawldatplay monkeyrazor, cuz heebeethinkin itsa bit racisten Iwannatellim itwadn’t butnow ol’Brett idn’t alldatshore it ain’t.

Eric: Is that why you didn’t run the play? Because you thought it was racist?

Brett: Now, cummonthere Coach ol’ Brett dunntoldya ainthavindat monkeyrazor play, notwhen 244 gypsy checkwitme workin’ somuchbedder, lemme tellya.

Eric: You don’t know the monkey razor play, do you Brett?

Brett: Nosir, aintgotta Gatdang clue.

Eric: Just tell Stuckey to run to the corner and throw it to him.

Brett: Hey coach, alligottadu stickdaballun mah bellybuttonin breethoutreel biggin wegonna gitdat toopoincunvershun, lemme tellya.

Eric: [confused] Why don’t you ever talk like this on TV?

Brett: Cummonthere coach playclockgonna runnout onnus now juslemme rundatbawl inthere.

Eric: Hey! Farmer Fuckhead! Throw it to  Stuckey!

Brett: Ulright youda boss.

[Runs play, pass incomplete]

Eric: You gotta execute better than that, goatfucker.

Brett: Imgonnatell Laveranues you saiddat.

Eric: [to himself] Maybe we should onside kick it again.