Brett Fraud-re

I'm past the point of wishing death to everyone in New York City and getting the blog scoped out by the Department of Homeland Security, and up to the second stage of Patriots Football Grief, wishing death just to key NY Jets personnel, particularly Brett Favre.

Here's the thing, I didn't learn anything from yesterday's debacle. We knew the Patriots were better than the Bills. We knew the Dolphins were better than the Jets and knew the Ravens were better than the god-awful Jaguars. We knew Brett Favre was ancient and unreliable, like sundials or chivalry. Plus, I think deep down inside we all knew that losing in overtime at home to the Jets would come back to bite eventually.

But that doesn't mean we don't have the right to be mad. Yesterday's performance by the Patriots in the wind was herculean, with Matt Cassel getting his Bill Paxton on, passing and punting into a twister I expected to see a cow or a trailer fly through. He and the defense took care of business the best they could. Unfortunately we had to depend on a team so horrible that by 6PM its fans were rooting against themselves

And as bad as the Jets defense was (more Swiss than cheese really), Brett Favre was epically putrid. He had a trilogy of interceptions, each worse than the one before. It was like The Mummy of quarterback performances. The first deep ball was not horrible but had me wishing I hadn't seen it. The second pass I couldn't believe anyone would make. Favre threw to a receiver he couldn't see because he was hiding behind the massive defensive lineman who ended up catching, running and scoring. The third pick was a walk off interception. We walked out before it was all over, nothing was said.

The second and third picks were Chicago Black Sox interceptions... ones that make you question allegiances and motives. Ones that give the censors of your brain the hour off and you spew hate at Brett Favre and his shoulder and his family and even his performance in There's Something About Mary. Its wishing aloud for news stories of the Jets team plane crashing, or a stampede of fans leaving the Meadowlands resulting in a massacre of turncoat Jets fans. Yesterday we spent more than an hour discussing whether kidnapping his daughter was the best way to send a message. That is the aforementioned first stage of grief.

Now I'm only wishing for news about Favre's shoulder injury being a malignant tumor that requires amputation. That is my second stage. I assume the next stage becomes an even lesser degree of rage, one where Eric Mangini's job is some sort of acceptable collateral damage. But currently I can't imagine when that day will come.

But that douzy of a third stage (and whatever lies beyond that... maybe the whole forth or fifth "There's always next year" stage) won't be hastened by all the things that remind me of Favre; its like trying to get over an old girlfriend. Whenever I hear Madden verbally felate Brett Fav-rah's warrior mentality, or he inevitable skips of the Pro-Bowl (really?!?! Favre's 22/22/81 rtg over Cassel's 21/11/89.4 or Pennington's 19/7/97.4 or Rivers' 34/11/105.5), or the months of will he/won't comeback rumors, it will be a remind of the pain.

Here's the dirty little secret in it all: Brett Favre sucks. Maybe not always, maybe not even most of last year, but those days have passed and now he just sucks. He ruined the Patriots' somehow under-dog season, he ruined the Jets for a few years to come, he ruined Mike Smith's chances at coach of the year (he's lead blocking for Sparano now) and he ruined his own name.

He has almost as many shameful records as celebrated ones, lets talk about those. 22 interceptions led the league this year, and don't pretend they weren't in crunchtime. Lets talk about his backstabbing of Green Bay and don't pretend he didn't also force the hand of the Jets front office. He ruined Cameron Diaz, Wrangler Jeans, and the number 4, for me. I'm even finding myself questioning that awesomely groomed yet somewhat unrefined facial stubble. Basically my world is shattered. I hate you Brett Favre.