Brett Favre Is Telling The Truth

“Rimbaud was his passion, but we finally had to tell him — and this broke the heart of every member of the department, because you knew how bad he wanted it — that there was more security in pro football.”
 — Professor Ed Olshan, University of Southern Mississippi, Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures chair 1985–1993

Okay, so the latest news in the Brett Favre penis portraiture story — and let’s be honest, this is a much more uplifting news event than what’s about to happen in the midterm elections — is that Favre “admitted to leaving voicemails wooing the stunning ex-model two years ago — but insisted he never texted her pictures of his penis, according to Fox Sports.” Deadspin, which has been riding the story of Favre’s wang up and down and in and out and sideways and has quite literally begged for more, notes that both the voicemails and the schlong snapshot originated from the same number. So is Favre lying? No. Here’s why.

Before he settled for a special ed degree at the University of Southern Mississippi, Favre was widely known about campus for his devotion to the classics and to French in particular. (It’s not surprising, given his French heritage.) Without intending to cast any aspersions on athletes in general or Southern Miss in particular, even instructors at the school were surprised.

“He’d show up for class, this big football player, and at first you’d think he was in the wrong place. You’d try to quietly make sure this was where he was supposed to be, and he’d nod his head and say, ‘Yes ma’am,’ real loud, so everyone could hear,” recalls one professor. “He was proud of it.”

“He’d come in to study film and he’d be lugging a bunch of that French crap around with him,” coach Jim Carmody told the AP in a 2003 interview. “I told him I didn’t give a rip what he did in his spare time so long as it didn’t affect how he played on Saturday, and he told me not to worry. I also tried to steer him away from Verlaine and all that faggy Symbolist bullshit, but you can only tell your players that they should read L’Avare ou L’École du mensonge so many times before you can see you’re not getting through. That boy hated Moliere something fierce. I never knew why.”

Edward P. Olshan, who headed the department during Favre’s time at the school, remembers the disappointment in Favre’s eyes when he sat him down and explained how competitive the field of French literature was.

“It was like I kicked his dog,” says Olshan, author of No Man Nose: Rostand, the Neo-Romantics, and the World They Made. “But I finally got it across to him that there was no way he was going to survive the pressure in this line. He needed something with job security, where there were no tenure requirements and a man could work for a good twenty years if he wanted to.”

And that’s why Olshan believes Favre’s story about the texts. Ruffling through his files, he pulls out a dog-eared paper from 1990. The name “Brett Favre” is clearly visible on the front.

“This is Brett’s paper on Edmond Rostand,” says Olshan. “Now, I’m considered the expert on the subject, but if you just look through this and see what a college boy was able to put together — and he told me later he was hungover at the time — it’s pretty clear that this is someone who could have been a Rostand expert.”

Your point, professor?

“Well, I would think it’s pretty obvious. Brett sent those texts, but he was insecure about the appearance of his cock. It’s sort of a reverse Cyrano situation. I imagine Brett went to a friend of his and asked him to let him use pictures of his dong instead of Brett’s own.”

But that’s the penis he chose?

“Well, Brett’s taken a lot of hits since college. I’m not saying the judgment’s totally solid. I myself would have used a bigger wang. Hell, I would have let Brett use mine if he needed. It’s got some gray hairs, sure, but so does his beard — “

The interview ended there (although not before Olshan yelled down the hall at the fleeing reporter, “How come no one mentions the fact that it’s absolutely disgusting in the 21st century that such a thing as ‘football hostesses’ even exist?” which is a completely irrelevant and frankly un-American question), but the evidence is fairly compelling: That is not Brett Favre’s penis in that picture. He was hoping to woo the young woman with the wand of another. Now let us all go back to enjoying concussions in peace.