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. Die.

I’d like to take a time out from the continuing horror that is life without football to issue the following FKS-style rant.

I FUCKING HATE GROUP DINNERS.

Let me tell you something. There is no way to enter into a group dinner without somehow managing to get completely fucked. Take it from someone who knows. Group dinners are usually arranged by a female, usually a friend of some girl you’re trying to nail. And that friend will pick a restaurant without any fucking regard as to where you live or what your salary is. “Oooh, there’s a hot new restaurant on Ellis Island that only serves caviar and Kobe beef! Let’s go there!”

The restaurant will be loud. You won’t be able to hear a goddamn thing. And you will be seated, invariably, next to most socially awkward people at the table. You’ll crane your neck to look down the table, seeing the people at the other end engaged in a compelling conversation. Meanwhile, you’re stuck with some asshole who’s talking about the repairs he’s making to his fucking house. I’m 31 now. People my age talk about their fucking houses ALL THE GODDAMN TIME.

“Well, when we moved in, the basement was just a wreck! So we wanted to install carpet and maybe add a sectional. But then the contractor had to rip out all this mold! And you wouldn’t believe how much the plumber wanted to charge to install a half-bathroom! There’s also been a history of flooding down there, you know…”

DIE.

The only thing worse than people talking about their kids, or their jobs, is them talking about their fucking houses. I don’t give a fuck about your house. It’s just another fucking house like every other house. It’s got a bed, a kitchen, a TV, and your stash of child porn hidden in the attic. BOTTLE IT, FUCKO.

The worst part of a group dinner is that I can’t order my own shit. No, they gotta order apps “for the whole table”. Did I want artichoke dip? No, I did not. Artichoke dip is fucking horrible. One time I went to a group dinner and the “host” ordered apps and entrees for everyone WITHOUT FUCKING ASKING ANYONE WHAT THEY WANTED. Hey cockhead, did I ask for stewed chickpeas? Take this and shove it up your gaping asshole.

Ever have to go to a group dinner at a tapas restaurant? It’s agony. You order a shrimp app, and they bring out 5 shrimp for a fucking table of 8. I’ve gone to tapas restaurants, plunked down $45, and taken a grand total of five bites. Hey Spain, if you want to starve to death, you go right ahead. The rest of us like fucking eating more than a pea for dinner. You bullfighting queers. Mata-WHORES.

The disparity in consumption also outrages me. I order a $5 beer. The jackass across the way orders a fucking $17 appletini. Or some bitch always ALWAYS orders a pitcher of sangria. If there’s white sangria on the menu for $10 more, they’ll order that. They’ll order it “for the table”. Ever pour a pitcher of anything for eight people? You get three milliliters of fluid. FUCK YOUR FRUITY WINE DRINK.

If everyone’s having just entrees, some moron will always fuck it up by ordering an app, thus driving up the tab AND making the rest of the table wait longer for the goddamn food. If I order a $15 entrée, someone else will invariably order the Chateaubriand with foie gras. No one wants to stick around for dessert, but some idiot will always pipe up, “Ooh! I just HAVE to look at the dessert menu!”

And once the tab arrives, it’s automatically assumed that the tab be SPLIT EQUALLY. Hey host lady. You see those seven daiquiris on the tab? Those are your problem. I’m not paying for that shit. Yet if I bitch about this, I’m somehow a cheap asshole. What the fuck?

Worst of all, when the tab arrives, someone ends up having to do the math to figure out how much everyone owes plus tip. Only they have to make sure Jimmy only pays for his drinks, because he showed up late and didn’t eat anything. Then that person’s gotta explain it all to the waiter, only the waiter is nowhere to be found, so they have to explain it to the busboy, who only speaks a rare Peruvian dialect.

And guess who always gets stuck with this task?

And for you people who like to order coffee at the end of a meal: EAT A PILE OF SHIT. It’s 10PM. What the fuck do you need coffee for? Order a straight bourbon like the rest of the civilized world. When I go to a group dinner, I am ALWAYS the first person to stand up, as a way of signaling to people that it’s time to end the meal. Otherwise, people just sit there for time eternal. God dammit.

No more group dinners, people. Okay? If you want to eat in large groups, throw a Bar Mitzvah. Otherwise, we’re all going to Super Chicken. Pay at the register for your own crap. Shithead.

Group dinners are worse than the Holocaust.

Know why? Because not only would the 2007 Patriots STILL beat your ass, so would the 2007 Giants.

And, come to think of it, so would the 2007 Dolphins. Yep, I’m quite sure the 2007 Dolphins would wad you up and shit you out like a hot turd. Did your linemen average 300 lbs.? Did your coaches study hours of tape and map out tendencies? Did your receivers do any speed training? Did the ‘72 Dolphins have access to creatine and lots of Hammer strength equipment? No?

THEN SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I’m quite sure Cleo Lemon would have a field day with your stupid fucking team. Playing your team today would be like playing a goddamn NAIA team. So shut your piehole and find a place to die quietly. No one cares about how good your team was. Everyone thinks you’re a fucking douche. EUGENE.

Nice glasses, fuckface.

I hope you get fucking angina.

Hey, Hall of Fame voters, I’d like to induct you into my asshole. Be sure to wear a yellow blazer and a protective helmet, you fucking fucks. I watched every game this asshole played for 11 goddamn years AND I DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM. What, does everyone have to wait to get their just due now? Five years not enough? Is this the fucking Oscars now?

AND ANDRE TIPPETT GETS IN OVER DERRICK THOMAS?!

Kiss my fucking dick.

And that’s not where the similarities begin and end with the ‘86 Celtics and the ‘07 Patriots.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. Why do you make it so hard for me, asshole? Just when I was trying to swallow my pride and appreciate the Patriots run, along comes William Of Greenwich to bring my acid reflux back.

When the Colts ducked the AFC Championship Game with an indefensible choke job against San Diego, many die-hard Boston fans thought the same thing: Ralph Sampson.

And by many fans, he means ONE.

Look, I’m not saying the ‘07 Colts or ‘86 Lakers openly chose to lose. They just took the easy way out. Subconsciously, they were probably thinking, “Deep down, we know we’re not winning the title this year,” and responded in crisis with the appropriate amount of urgency.

Wow, what an amazing analysis of the collective psyche of 50 to 60 players and coaches on the Indy sideline! I’m sure they subconsciously really wanted to lose to avoid your precious Patriots. No competitive fire in that team! What’s the view like inside your own large intestine? Is it shiny?

In the process, they cheated two unforgettable teams of punctuating unforgettable seasons by topping their natural rivals.

Oh, poor you! You get to go 19-0, just not against the teams you wanted to go 19-0 against! Oh, you poor millionaire you! You were so cheated! IT’S ALL SO UNFAIR!!!!

On top of that, (Brady) excelled during an unhealthy era in which we digest sports through various mediums, argue about them constantly and pick athletes and coaches apart on a 24/7 basis.

It’s true! If only it were like back in the old days, when people couldn’t write columns on the Internet! That was really the beginning of the end! It’s also terrible when people can anonymously rip other people online, like the Sports Gal does!

He has the same satisfied smirk on his face that someone has when they’re meeting the boyfriend of a kinky ex-girlfriend, like he’s particularly delighted to make eye contact for that split-second as they’re shaking hands.

“Kinky women usually leave me for other men because I play a Dictaphone of Adam Carolla reading my columns, and I make them wear a Kimmel wig! I also like to give smug glances to other men, just to be a fucking prick!”

I have this one on tape — in the second half, the entire Celtics team morphs into Clint Eastwood during the final 15 minutes of “Unforgiven.” It’s incredible to watch. This game should run on ESPN Classic once a week.

Because Boston fans would really enjoy it! And they’re the only fans that matter!

The ‘86 Celtics had one of the most significant home court advantages in sports history, finishing 50-1 at home (including the playoffs) and breaking records for “Most times a group of fans recognized that a great pass was about to happen even before it happened,” and “Most times a crowd has ever lifted a team from one level to another.”

Because Boston fans are smarter and better than regular fans! In fact, they’re so good, they can literally improve the athletic potential of the team! But that’s not all! Boston fans can also turn lead into gold! And heal by touch! And when they take a shit, little animated birds appear from out of nowhere to wipe and powder their asses clean!

You can’t say enough about that gag job by the defending champs. What a disgrace. Part of winning a title is defending the title after you win it … and that wasn’t anything remotely resembling a defense.

So true. If you don’t do well the next year, your title shouldn’t really count! Like when the Patriots when 9-7 in 2002 and failed to make the playoffs! So weak!

Whether it’s a team or a player, the test remains the same: Will you be bouncing your grandkids on your lap some day and telling them how great Player X or Team X was? (Note: I always thought this would be a great way to decide the Hall of Fame — if somebody doesn’t pass the Grandkids Test, they’re out.)

I see someone is taking notes at the Woody Paige School For Idiotic Hall Of Fame Selection Methodology.

You know, I started off liking Simmons because I thought he was different from every other sportswriter out there. But he’s fucking EXACTLY like them all. He only gives a fuck about HIS team, HIS life, HIS opinions, and getting you to side with him. And all the old Rocky III jokes in the world (“Oh look! Two men hugging! That’s so funny! Don’t you think it’s funny that I find that funny?”) don’t make a goddamn difference. Know why I can’t ignore Simmons? BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO. I want to be reminded exactly of what it’s like to be some self-satisfied asshole who doesn’t give a shit about entertaining readers.

So, to that end… WE’RE UPPING THE BOUNTY!!!!

Twenty-one whole dollars to take out our man’s hands (NOTE: Offer not valid). He’ll never type or stroke his fingers through Wes Welker’s hair again. That’s the price you pay for making me root for fucking Marmalard, assfuck.