Dear aspiring and established journalists: events and facts should drive a story, not whim and conjecture. So if you could NOT gaze longingly at Mississippi every time a starting quarterback gets injured, that’d great. Thanks!

This is Jenn Sterger, former Florida State fangirl and in-house chew toy sideline reporter for the New York Jets. Today at the Mothership, my boss Daulerio says Sterger was on the receiving end of cell phone pictures of Brett Favre’s penis. Sent from the Penis Baron himself, a trick he no doubt learned from the Salisbury Institute. Let’s get into the nitty gritty:

Sterger claimed she spurned Favre’s advances because he was married, but also because she was working for the Jets at the time she didn’t think it was the best idea to start a torrid affair with the team’s highest profile player (the Jets have not responded to a question about any knowledge of the Favre/Sterger saga at this time). Plus, if she went forward with how aggressive he was and how skeeved out she was to some of her superiors, she suspected she might lose her job.

The interactions were flirty and strange but she didn’t think there wasn’t anything that made her too uncomfortable. But then, one night, Sterger received a picture on her phone which was so shocking that she just tossed it across the room. It was his dick. Brett Favre’s dick. And it happened multiple times. In fact, Sterger claims that, in one of the photos Favre allegedly sent her, he’s masturbating — while wearing a pair of Crocs.

Peter King is rubbing his throbbing groin as we speak. I have to ask the Favres and Salisburys of the world: Has this pickup method EVER worked? In history? Has a woman ever gotten pictures of a dick over the phone and said, “That cinches it! I’m totally banging this guy!” I always figured a penis is a necessary evil. Like Louis CK said, every dick you suck has gotta take something out of ya. So I don’t really know why anyone would EVER send anyone a cock shot.

Unless… well, ol’ Bretty does have himself a sense of humor. He’s always laughing and joking! Slapping guys on the butt! And he does a great Sling Blade impression! I can totally see how taking a picture of your dick and sending it to a girl would be the highest of high comedy! So, so funny. Especially when you do it multiple times, from multiple angles, in rubberized footwear.

We apologize: we have not covered the Favre goat story in the two whole days it has existed on the Internet. This is due both to our collective Favre fatigue and the inability of our resident goat-bondage expert PUNTE to weigh in on the subject.  There are some pending criminal charges in South Carolina that keep him from sharing his expertise.

Anyway, it seems like only yesterday we were still talking about the woman who was traveling to Minneapolis with a live purple- and gold-painted goat with the number 4 shaved into its sides tied down in her trunk, with the apparent intent to sacrifice it near Brett Favre’s preseason debut on Friday.

However, as we all know, the goat was saved by fortuitous car trouble and the altruistic mechanics at Tires Plus in Winona, Minnesota — a tough blow for the subset of society that believes in a Chicago Cubs-like curse on the Vikings and also enjoys a good goat sacrifice.  Moreover, the would-be blood offering to the football gods has been named Brett and is now living in Packers country, at the very same Favre-lovin’ farm that chose to make a Brett Favre corn maze last year instead of planting crops. (Native Americans call it “maize”) — it’s a small world when everyone’s insane about the same washed-up, self-centered quarterback.  We can only guess that Brett the Goat will live happily on the farm for several months before he un-retires and ends up tied down in another car’s trunk.  The first step to curing addiction is admitting you have a problem.

As we sift through the untidy aftermath of news stories dedicated to A FREAKING GOAT TIED UP IN A TRUNK JUST BECAUSE IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH FAVRE, perhaps the greatest development in this was MyFox New York’s decision to segue this story into a sport that dates back to 13th century Afghanistan.  Because it involves goats, you see:

Goats also play a major role in Afghanistan’s national sport — Buzkashi. Translated into English, Buzkashi means “goat grabbing” or “goat killing.”

Not to be confused with the Irish national sport, Boozekakke.

And finally, no Internet story is complete without mention of fainting goats.  They’re the Tarvaris Jackson of sacrificial goats!

It’s funny because Brett Favre is indecisive, you see.

(thanks to Upstate Underdog)

Oh man. Oh God. Oh man. Oh God. Between cat massage and ferrets and watching Big Daddy Drew writhe in misery about the Favre signing, this is possibly my favorite day I’ve ever had on the Internet.

I, for one, LOVE this move by the Vikes — and you can, too.  Join me, friends.  You can bask in the glory of the Favre in Viking purple.  The secret: avoiding ESPN at all costs.  Take away the Worldwide Leader’s non-stop coverage of Favre, take away their years of worshipful praise, take away their hypocritical indignance in today’s coverage, and you can appreciate this for what it is: delicious, delicious schadenfreude.  Suck it, Minnesconsin!

Oh, so NOW you decide to sign, you fucking cockrut? Only now, because you were too fucking old and lazy to actually bother with training camp, you stubbled assgazer? I am supposed to be relieved that you finally “changed your mind”, you fucking douchetender? Oh, thank God you’re here! Thank God the man who had a worse passer rating than T-Jack and Gus Frerotte combined last year, AND threw more picks than both of them, is now in the fold! Huzzah! Another triumphant playoff loss to the Eagles is all but assured now!

Say, this is funny. Remember two weeks ago, when Brett Favre told Lofty Peter King just how devastated he was that he had to say no to the Vikings? When really he just was just lying right through his fucking bumpkin teeth because he didn’t want to bother to do things like get into shape or learn the playbook? That was fun. And I’m crazy excited for the press conference later today, when he explains that he changed his mind when really, he didn’t want to bother to do things like get into shape or learn the playbook. BUT THAT’S BRETT FAVRE FOR YOU. HE JUST LOVES THE GAME TOO DAMN MUCH.

YOU MASSIVE SHITBURGLAR. NOW I HAVE TO SPEND A WHOLE GODDAMN YEAR PRETENDING TO WISH YOU WELL WHEN, IN FACT, I HOPE YOU FALL OFF YOUR PORCH AND HAVE YOUR THROAT SLASHED BY A BEER BOTTLE. I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU FUCK.

Look, I get that the Vikings have a real problem with the QB position. But really, does anyone think the ultimate solution for this team is a 39-year-old pick machine who confesses to having a tired body and doesn’t actually want to do any of the hard work involved with playing the position successfully? That’s what makes Favre so fucking annoying. “Fuggit. I’ll jusgeddoutdurr anthrowitaroun.” This guy has been in the league for years and years, and he still somehow thinks he doesn’t have to do any of the shit everyone else has to do to win games. He’s quarterbacks the way Steve fucking Spurrier coaches.

The fact of the matter is that Brett Favre doesn’t actually love football. Say what you will about Peyton Manning, but that guy genuinely loves the football: studying tape and all that shit. Favre doesn’t. He just loves being a football player. He likes running out having people scream his name and all that shit. That’s all. And that’s fine. I don’t begrudge any man that right. But I don’t want to hear about how he’s coming back for the love of the game. If he loved the game so much, he’d work to NOT FUCKING SUCK AT IT WHEN IT COUNTS. Just the kind of player who fits into the Vikings organization. I hate that I root for this goddamn team.

It’s gonna be a long year. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.

FUCK YOU, YOU GREASY FUCKING CUNT. YOU PATHETIC, ATTENTION-WHORING, INDECISIVE SACK OF SHIT. DIE. DIE IN A FIRE. DIE IN A CARBON MONOXIDE LEAK. THANK GOD I NEVER HAVE TO ROOT FOR YOUR SORRY ASS, YOU FUCKING TITFISTER. NOW MY SEARING HATE FOR YOU IS FOREVER PRESERVED, ENSHRINED IN THE DEEPEST BOWELS OF MY PITCH BLACK SOUL, IN WHICH I DREAM NIGHTLY OF YOU RAPED WITH A HEDGE TRIMMER. MY HATE FOR YOU IS NOW IMMORTAL. I HOPE YOU GROW INDIFFERENT TO A LIFE OUT OF THE SPOTLIGHT, AND TAKE TO THE CELEBRITY POKER CIRCUIT AND ARE HORRIBLE AT IT. YOU FUCK.

(Oh, and Jim Johnson died today. Jim Johnson was awesome. Take a cue Favre about learning how to exit the stage gracefully.)

My favorite team is going to sign Brett Favre in the coming days, or weeks, or months, or however long it takes that fucking asshole to milk the publicity machine to his satisfaction. It’s going to happen. Debating whether or not it will is a complete waste of fucking time. When it comes to the Land Baron, speculation always becomes reality.

It’s fitting that it would come this. For years and years, I have fucking loathed Brett Favre with every fiber of my being. He is the single most self-aggrandizing piece of shit who ever walked the Earth, the most blatantly phony human being in America this side of Bobby Bowden. Say what you will of openly douchebaggy people like Matt Leinart or Spencer Pratt. At least there are no illusions when it comes to those gents’ intentions. Everything about Favre – from his style of play to his carefully cultivated everyman image – is complete bullshit, and everything about the man is tiresome, to the point where bitching about him being tiresome has become an even more tiresome enterprise than whatever it is that makes him tiresome to begin with. Not only am I sick of this dipshit, but I’m sick of being sick of him. And I resent that everyone is so tired of hating him, that I’m beating a dead horse by still hating him.

I have always argued that pro athletes should play their respective sports as long as they damn well please, because it’s still a kickass job even if you aren’t all that good at it anymore. So I don’t begrudge Favre his right to play football, even if it’s for the Vikings. What I do begrudge is the fact that this asshole NEVER WANTED TO FUCKING STOP PLAYING TO BEGIN WITH. He knew the second he rererereretired earlier this year that he’d try and get his release so he could play in Minnesota. This whole myth perpetrated by Peter King that, “I don’t think even Brett Favre knows what Brett Favre is going to do” is the most insulting pile of shit I’ve ever heard. That fuck knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing, and anyone who says otherwise probably spends all day licking radiators.

Make no mistake, when the Vikings end up signing Favre, it won’t be the final piece in some kind of championship puzzle. It’ll be the nothing more than the final nail in the coffin for Brad Childress. It’ll be the last act of a desperate coach who has spent the past three years wasting an otherwise talented roster on unimaginative schemes and an abject failure to produce anything of note at the quarterback position. This asshole had three fucking years to cultivate a decent QB for this team. Three. A fucking lifetime in NFL years.

Instead, he insisted he could develop Tarvaris Jackson, who can play the position somewhat decently only when there is nothing important to play for. Jackson was drafted by Fran Foley, the onetime Vikings personnel director who was immediately fired after the Jackson draft, for warning his secretary there would be a coming “bloodbath” (his word): a mass firing of scouts and team administrators. Foley traded two third-round picks to select Jackson, whose predraft grades (most pegged him as a late round pick to rookie free agent) immediately made his selection the equivalent of the Raiders’ Michael Mitchell pick two weeks ago.

The Vikings could have made any number of moves in recent years to give Jackson competition, or to outright replace him. They had a chance to trade for Matt Schaub. They had a chance to draft any number of other QB’s. They could have traded for Jay Cutler, regardless of whether or not you found his price too exorbitant. Instead, they did virtually nothing until trading for Sage Rosenfels earlier this year. It’s an indictment of just how poorly prepared Jackson is that Rosenfels, who averages one interception for every 20 fucking pass attempts, represents a colossal upgrade at the position.

And now, only now, after time and again fucking up the QB situation, does Childress feel urgently compelled to seriously upgrade the position. And how is he going about it? By making late overtures to an erratic 39-year-old journeyman with half a bicep. Hey shitbox, you already have an erratic journeyman on the roster. Do we really need fucking multiples of them?

I’ve heard arguments in the Minnesota media that, while Favre almost certainly offers no January promise for the Vikings, that his presence will at least make the coming season more interesting. Well, you know what? I don’t want my team to be fucking interesting. I want my team to fucking WIN. I’ve seen this team do the interesting thing before, with Denny Green and Randy Moss and all that shit. It was fun. But ultimately, it ended up going to shit.

Interesting teams don’t win it all in the NFL anymore. If you want to win a Super Bowl, you’re better off being the most boring fucking team alive. Look at the Steelers. They change coaches once every two decades. They never sign big name free agents, particularly those “he’s the final piece!” type free agents. They don’t do any of that shit. They keep things running smoothly, and then they go win titles. And they don’t sign players I fucking despise.

That’s the biggest dagger of all in this whole shitshow. That seething hatred I have of Brett Favre is part of who I am. It’s ingrained in my very being. When I die, my body will turn into nothing but solid black ash. I won’t go to Heaven. I won’t go to Hell. I’ll simply stop existing. Not a trace of me will be left, on this plane or any other. But, even then, I assure you I’ll still find a way to fucking hate Brett Favre.

And now, as a final, personal FUCK YOU to every Viking fan like me who ever wished him dead, that fuckface is now going to make it so I have to root for him. I actually have to cheer when he goes and does something good. And that makes me hate his fucking guts all the more. Because now I’m supposed to buy into all his bullshit.

That fucking fuck.

Well, fine. If that’s the way it has to be, then so be it. I’ll root for you in a Vikings uniform, Favre. But just know that I will hate every goddamn minute of it. Just know that never has loving a sports team been more exposed as a thoughtless, irrational, singularly idiotic pursuit than in this coming instance. Just know that I will fucking hunt you down with a goddamn bow when you end up fucking us in the end. And you will fuck us. Just know I’m far more excited by the thought of you getting booed at Lambeau than the thought of you being cheered at the Metrodome.

Just know that your new head coach is an incompetent, arrogant fuckwit who couldn’t place an order at a Sonic drive thru without fucking it up and triggering some sort of biochemical attack.

Just know all that before you sit down for your little powwow with Brad Childress, Farvaro. You fucking pussyflap. Oh, I’ll cheer you on, you fucking Hollywood redneck cockpuller. I’ll pull for you every step of the way, you miserable shit volcano. I’ll cherish your token three good games during the season that make Collinsworth flood his pants, you blood-soaked pantyliner.

I’ll do all that that.

But I’ll never stop hating you.

Fuck you.