The Guys in Your Fantasy Football League
The Commish in your league is about as useless as a box of condoms in Janoris Jenkins’ pocket. You want to talk about thankless jobs? The league commissioner is the pledge sober driver of life. About thirty times between now and Week 17, he’s going to incessantly ask “Hey, do you have the buy-in money yet? By the way, my vagina is so large, I can fit Chad Johnson’s ego inside of it, and still have room for six thunderous dildos.”
No, I don’t have your money, asshole. I spent it all on my autographed Rae Carruth jersey. His girlfriend’s blood stains really accentuate the teal. It’s not my fault you didn’t actually hold me to paying you prior to Week 4, before my team lost Austin Collie for the year when he got a concussion from opening a letter in the mail. My team is Roethlisberger’d. I have zero chance of winning. I am not giving you money that could otherwise be used to finance my increasing Adderall-dependency. Fuck off.
The Matthew Berry Wannabe
Words do not describe how much I hate this guy. On the “Hate Scale,” in ascending order, there’s “hate,” there’s “what Roger Goodell writes in his diary each night about the New Orleans Saints,” there’s “Justin Timberlake singing Cry Me a River,” and then there’s “I hope the bodies of you and your loved ones get horribly mangled by a Donte Stallworth piloted SUV that’s oversized and underinsured.”
I don’t care how many mock drafts you’ve done, or how picking Randy Moss in the 15th round makes you the fantasy equivalent of Danny Ocean. The number one unspoken rule of fantasy football: no one gives a shit about your fantasy team, so don’t talk about your team. No one cares that you printed off the entire ESPN Draft Kit. No one cares that DeSean Jackson cost you 50 points when he flopped at the one like he was auditioning to be Lou Holtz’s replacement stroke victim on GameDay. Remove your carpal tunnel syndrome-laden hands from your mother’s 8-roper-covered keyboard, step outside, and become acquainted with sunlight for the first time, you pasty jizzrag of life.
The Dick Joker
AKA every member of your league. Two great things about playing fantasy: the team names and the smack-talk. The more offensive, the better. This year, I’m rolling out with squads called “Fitz Toudrunk,” “Seaucide Pact,” and “Muhammad Collie.” The last one’s team mascot is just a picture of Michael J. Fox. By the end of the season, I will have my opposition shaking in fear.
But nothing in this world compares to the smack-talk. Oh, the vitriol. Sorry, Herm; we don’t play to win the game. That’s a try-hard attitude if I’ve ever heard one, you perennial January golfer. You play to skull-fuck the rest of the league into taunting submission. I’m talking horrible, slit your wrists, I-Need-To-Find-A-Cure-For-Starvation-In-Haiti-Or-I’m-Going-To-Spend-An-Eternity-In-Hell-Tonguing-Dumbface-Manning’s-Bleached-Butthole levels of relentless mocking.
Other great touches include the guys who stick to hilarious team themes. Nothing beats the guy who takes Peyton Hillis in the second round to line up at RB1 for Team “All Token White Guys”. I’ve already placed a bet on his team to face the “Mean Machine” in the championship round, a team comprised only of players who have spent time in jail. You’ve got to appreciate the commitment. Sadly, thanks to the Detroit Lions, this felonious feat is no longer as difficult as it was in years past. But still, it’s SO glorious. A Tebow vs. Plax championship really needs to happen in real life. The heavens would come crashing down upon all of us during that biblical pissing contest between God and Satan.
The Guy No One Knows
He’s the real life John and Jeremy, but without getting jerked off under the table in front of the whole damn family. Everybody figures that he’s someone’s friend from out-of-state or something weird like that, but when the rest of the league sits in the great room on Monday nights to watch Jon Gruden go full retard on the color commentary, everyone realizes that no one knows who this jackass is. He auto-drafted his team, checked out after week 3, and starts four guys who are on the IR.
But he will be universally praised when he sends the Matthew Berry-wannabe into a drywall-punching fury (and the House Manager into homicidal rage) when he pulls off the monster upset after Alex Smith goes off for five touchdowns. Everyone would love to buy this ghost of a man a beer…if they were only able to confirm that he even exists.
The Token Hot Chick
Kidding, of course. Fantasy Football = Man Time. If Brooklyn Decker came waltzing up to the draft table at B-Dubs, wearing a French Maid outfit, and offering to baby powder my ballfro with the yeast coming out of her bajingo, I’d MAYBE consider it, but only if it was 6:42 p.m. on a Wednesday, and she allowed me to slap her tits around like they were Mama Dez.
Other than those particular circumstances, no chance. Every league has that guy who tries to extend an invite to his smoking hot girlfriend with great tits and a Bears jersey. Don’t be that guy. Fuck that guy. Women ruin everything. You can’t make the same dick/rape jokes you otherwise would when there’s a girl in the room. You just can’t. Fantasy football and urinal cakes are the only thing we men have left in this world. Cherish them.
Not to mention, if you do let a woman join your league, she’ll win. I guarantee it. You know I’m right. Anyone who’s ever been a part of a March Madness pool knows this. Why? The fuck if I know. It defies logic. The most rational explanation is that this is God’s sick way of punishing us for missing Mass in order to watch our life savings get pissed down the toilet because we thought Michael Vick would treat his ribs better than he treats newborn puppies.
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