“ALI…are you going to write about Brett Favre?”
(No high five for YOU, WienerBrett. Who knows where that hand has been.)
I can’t tell you how many people asked me that this week. I lost count when I ran out of fingers and toes. Because, you see, I was born in Glendale, Wisconsin. I lived there until I was in high school, and my mom and my stepdad (he’s the Mayor, you know!) still live there. And with the exception of the fact that Milwaukeeans say jimmies instead of sprinkles and drink from bubblers instead of water fountains, it was a decent place to grow up. And Milwaukeeans…we bleed green and gold. We are proud cheeseheads and were proud Brett Favre fans. For 16 seasons.
And then we WTFd. Retire, return. Lather, rinse, repeat. Who in the hell do you think you are, Fav-ruh…Michael Jordan? And then it became personal. If Brett didn’t want to be a Packer, I didn’t want to be a fan. I even went as far as to own a Judas Favre tshirt. But, you know, a small part of me secretly still loved Brett Favre, so I never wore the shirt publicly. I mean, dude held my heart and gave me Sunday ulcers for so many years. But I still managed to root for any team that played the Vikings.
And then I hear the news start trickling in. There are words like sexting and sideline reporter and stalkerish voicemails and wiener shots. Alleged, but wiener shots nonetheless. And not just any wiener shots, folks, no. Hairy, unkempt bushy mcbusherfavre itsy bitsy peen shots. And there were crocs in involved. Crocs…and nothing else but what the good lord gave him.
So, of course, I had to write him a letter. Clearly, dude is in need of some good old advice.
I don’t care WHO you are. There is not a woman on this earth who thinks, “You know what would be dead sexy? a twitpic of a hairy and flaccid teeny wiener.” And I know lots of women.
Hey, you know what we like when we are being courted?
(Well, I can’t speak for those women on Sister Wives..because they probably like shit like, “Hey! Wanna join our family on 118 wives and children? There will be a schedule of when you can screw your husband…but hey! the more the merrier, right?” and “Wanna make out while my wife is in labor?”)
Women like us, Brett, we like flowers and being taken out to dinner. We like chivalry and having doors opened for them. We like you to buy us little gifts and bring us the coffee that we tweeted about so desperately wanting. We like wine and chocolate. We like humor. We like to go to baseball games or the theater. We like sitting on our asses and eating cookie dough and watching Jersey Shore. We like necklaces and bracelets and earrings.
There is a time and a place, #4, for a woman to see your junk. And it’s just before the sexy times. Otherwise, it should be hiding neatly under a pair of boxer briefs. It should not be taken out for showings. That’s just douchey. But, hey, is that why you are #4? As in, erm, inches?
If I were you, I would hide all your golf clubs. Because, you know, we know how well THAT ended for the last guy who didn’t think that cell phones left that little pesky thing called evidence. I know, you are probably feeling super jealous of Don Draper right now, who was able to mostly get away with all of his lewdy whore-ish escapades because there was no caller ID back then or cell phones or voicemails. Also, Don Draper probably has a bigger dick.
You have much to learn, Young Grasshopper.