What if Brett Favre and Michael Vick were Pen Pals?

It might go something like this:


Dear Michael:
As far as I know, I'm retired. (Not!) No, seriously, bro, I'm just down here watching Oprah, cutting grass, mending fences. I spend more time at Home Depot than Bob Vila. Call me if you want to play catch.
Dear Brett:
They got me under house arrest here in Hampton for two months; all I can say is: Thank God for Tyler Perry's House of Payne. TBS, man, very funny. Anyway, they fitted me with an electronic monitor -- I think the government's making me wear it, but it might be my fiancée Kijafa's doing.
Dear Michael:
Looked in the mirror today and said to myself, "You are retired." (Not!) Sure, I have a partially torn biceps muscle, but like I was telling my agent, Bus Cook -- I can throw spectacular interceptions with or without a good arm. Hell, it's not as if lives are at stake, I'm just putting some fans in the stands; hopefully, they're all wearing Wranglers.
Dear Brett:
People wonder if I still got pep in my step. I got a one-word answer for that: Sure do! Heck, Martha Stewart came out of prison better than ever, so did O.J. Simpson and Nelson Mandela. I'm under 30 and my legs are fresh -- at Leavenworth, I had a desk job in the prison laundry. Hey, I can still run from here to the bank; by the way, can you help me with endorsements?
Dear Michael:
I just told Bus -- you keep telling them I'm fishin' in Mississippi, I'll keep driving the jeep to the Twin Cities.
Dear Brett:
For show, I'm starting a $10-an-hour construction job next week. This one I'm mailing in -- they'd have to add a zero to that hourly wage before Michael Vick does any heavy lifting.
Dear Michael:
Didn't we have a ball in that Packers-Falcons playoff game Jan. 4, 2003? Well, you had a ball -- you owe me one, buddy.
Dear Brett:
The commissioner says I have to show remorse. What, the NFL moved its offices from New York City to Vatican City? I did some bad [expletive] with dogs, but there are a whole lot of players in this league that do some bad [expletive] with people every single week. How come they don't have to go kiss Roger Goodell's royal butt?
Dear Michael:
My throwing shoulder's getting worse, but the bottom line is -- Deanna wants me OUT OF THE HOUSE. Trust me, bro: I could be in a full body cast come September and I will still be in a Vikings uniform, chucking it. P.S. I hate to sound cold, but if I'm Tarvaris Jackson or Sage Rosenfels, I'd be practicing how to hold a clipboard.
Dear Brett:
You know, I was in the joint for only 18 months, and when I get out, Madden and Jay Leno are gone? Dang.
Dear Michael:
You just reminded me -- I wonder if it's too late to get on the cover of Madden NFL 10.