First of all, since I'm about to redistribute one of my completely unvarnished fantasy football posts on these make-believe pages, know full-well going in that I need not any comments about sexism, racism, homophobia, zenophobia or whatever it is that offends you by rote on most days.
This is the trash-talking arena, folks. This is what almost all men do and say down at the corner bar, no matter what their killjoy of a 'progressive' girlfriend or spouse with the mostly useless liberal arts degree belives her man is capable of. At the corner bar, the killing of whales is encouraged. At the corner bar, the ozone hole probably isn't safe. At the corner bar, the politically correct ninnies either run for the exits, or get their asses stomped on for daring to be so vociferously outraged for the umpteenth time. Needless to say, you have been warned.
It's gametime, people. Yeah, elections matter, but this is of a much greater importance.
Let's get it on!
It’s been waaaayyyyy too quiet around here of late. And if I’m anything, I’m long-winded. A blowhard, some might say.
Anywho, the Quote of the week: (Cleveland Browns defensive coordinator) Rob Ryan is familiar with Bears QB Jay Cutler from the time the two spent in the AFC West. Ryan was the defensive coordinator for the Raiders while Cutler was in Denver. "He could throw a strawberry through a battleship," Ryan said. "He's got a huge arm."
While that’s probably true, there are no active battleships in any navy flotilla the world over. Although, the Russians, long known for their shoddy and substandard military hardware, have two mothballed and rusting away. Not to worry, though. Those vertically-challenged pinheads, the Chinese, will likely buy them and retrofit them. In this day and age, with Aegis systems and sea-skimming anti-ship missiles aplenty, they’ll be sitting ducks even for the lamest of the lame, the oft-marauding Somali pirates armed with the latest high-tech slingshots.
But I digress.
Well, girls, we’ve passed the halfway point of the season, and we’ve all got our sights set on a gaudy championship. Or, in most cases, without yet realizing it or not, fantasy oblivion. Either way, in the grand scheme of things, this stuff ain’t worth hanging yourself over. With that said, I suspect that we’ve got a couple of owners that need to be put on a 24-hour suicide watch. And in these respects, we need to remain vigilant.
Here’s my pre-game assessment of each team heading into week 8:
Goose Necks…What sort of stupid-ass team name is that? What? Is this what becomes of people after years upon years of being force-fed tuna salad with grapes and cranberries thrown in for good digestive effect? Weenies, all!
Capital…Capital of what? Allah H. Christ! If I had a plug nickel for every time this team seriously under performed, I’d call Donald Trump and schedule me full-blown, a no holds barred, a…er, please excuse my temporary lapse of reason. Sorry, Scott.
No need to beat on my daughter or my grandchildren, right? Besides, all of those casts cost good money, correct?
(Gage, Taylor…If daddy loses today, lock yourselves in the tornado bunker and call 911. No sense suffering another fracture.)
Niner Empire…I don’t know what this guy has been generously sprinkling into his Lebanese hash (obviously some sort of opiate synergist) before igniting it with a time-tested sulfur preparation , but last I checked, there ain’t much of an empire going on here.
Then again, I have to give major kudos to Alex for the gracious and congratulatory phone call me made to me after I had soundly defeated him for the second time in just a few weeks. Thanks, Alex, That was nice. And remember, you are my bitch!!!
Pogrom…While this is certainly not an unbiased assessment, I firmly believe that this team rocks. One proviso, though. It is suspected in many circles that the owner of said team is a mad hatter with an unpredictable, sometimes uber violent temperament.
Kringen…Can somebody tell me, what the eff is an effin’ Kringen? Is that a Tennessee thing? Allow me to paint the scenario for you…A farmer comes up behind you and interrupts the ongoing sexual escapades by shouting, “Hey, boy, get your goll dang Kringen out of my cow!”
While I ain’t never had the misfortune to get lost and accidentally stumble into Tennessee, I’m a thinkin’ these here moonshine-addled boys ought to stick to fixin’ the secondhand John Deere when they’re not humpin’ away on their pregnant first cousins.
Opal! You hot lil’ bitch! Get me a god damned beer, will ya!?!
Now, lets take a peek at that perennially weaker division, shall we?
Colors Crue…Colors Crue? See, this is what happens when the borders are left unprotected. What’s the owners name? Mike? Uh, yeah! Short for Miguel, I’d venture to guess.
Let me guess. Fantasy Sunday in this house includes the obligatory television, the perfunctory computer, and a tray-load of rabbit tacos at halftime. Scott, are you screening these prospective owners, or not?
American Idiot…Need I say more? Okay, I’ll say more. Son, fat, drunk, ignorant and losing is no way to go through life. When you reach your horribly shallow apogee before you‘re old enough to shave without assistance, it might be time to blow out the pilot light and make with the fireworks display.
Wacko…I ask for some compelling competition and all I get is wackos, rednecks, illegals and idiots? In my opinion, this guy would be good, very good, if he could simply find something he’s actually good at. A true Zen epiphany on my part.
God (currently frowned upon in a country currently gone completely upside down), I’m good.
Blueballs…Well, since I ain’t one for inspecting testicles real close up like, can we get an officially ruling from the commissioner on this one? As in, what in the funk is a funking blueball already?
Is that like a vein imbalance, or something? One is getting more blood than the other, kind of like what fighter pilots face when doing negative-G dog fighting maneuver dives?
Or is it an issue of being emasculated? If so, dude, if your balls are really that noticeably blue, tell that chick you live with to remove those enormous, bear trap-like clamps. That’s gotta hurt, no?
A Style Management…forget the multitude of high-impact trades. Forget the yearly reinvention of the team after the first gut-wrenching loss. Put aside the vast amounts of waiver wire pickups and the costly transaction expenditures. What disturbs me the most about this team is that it can’t even decide what the fudge it’s name is!
Another season, another name. Drinkerz, JDK or some such demented thing, and now A Style Mismanagement? What’s up with the continual identity crisis, fella? Are you not sure about what you are? Are you, are you…dare I say it, are you light in the loafers?
There I said it. Or asked it. Or some such misguided thing. Just answer the question, boy.
And that’s all I got. Them’s my scatterbrained thoughts on all of that sort of next-to-meaningless malarkey. In a nutshell, you all suck and I hate all of you. Well, excepting for those of you that venture to provide me with the telephone numbers (include the area codes) of your pregnant first cousins, that is.
And while I won’t give any of you yet to play me much for your chances of defeating me, you do have my premature, yet deepest of sympathies.