Fantasy Football Draft this Saturday Bitches!!!

You had all better be staying the fuck in on Friday night, because Saturday is going to be off the mutherfucking chain, son! This is going to be the most bad-ass fantasy football draft we’ve ever had. Just when you thought that a group of grown men, many with families and multiple responsibilities, pretending to be in some league where they essentially trade baseball cards around until someone yells “Stop!” and the person holding the cards with the highest tally of stats is declared the winner couldn’t get any cooler…..you were dead-assed wrong. You put me in charge of this year’s draft and now I am putting the NASTY in Fanasty, bitches. The part where we pretend to be sports owners and have our own league that doesn’t really exist is just fantasy, but this draft day soiree I put together…this shit is real. Where is it going to be you ask? Hooters, mutherfucker. Who served us shitty wings last year and lukewarm Miller Lite in a garage while it poured down rain outside? Danny’s busted-ass pregnant fucking wife Cheryl, who didn’t even have the common decency to wear a low-cut top while she did it. By the way Danny, congratulations on your new daughter Tina, she’s beautiful. Who is serving the kick-ass hot wings and ice-cold Miller Lite this year? Marginally attractive white-trash chicks with cesarean section scars, that’s the fuck who. Titties will be poppin’ and they sure as shit won’t refuse to serve wings in the 4th round of the draft because their mom came over to plan a baby shower, nor will they cut J-Bomb off for being too drunk to drive home. My cousin Larry, who is an unemployed disc jockey that lives in my aunt and uncle’s basement, is going to be on a portable karaoke machine announcing all our picks to the crowd just like we’re in MSG. Not like last year when Tyler was announcing all the picks on Danny’s son’s bull horn and making a fart noise after all the picks. It is time we institute a little professionalism into this fantasy thing guys. Not only will we have the picks on the sound system, but we’ve also got a little something special for the actual draft board. Mike has done a solid job the past couple of years keeping everything organized in his graph-paper lined notebook, but that amateur-night bullshit is over. I brought Sanjay on board for the draft this year. For those of you that work with me, you’ll know Sanjay. He is the balding Indian guy from our IT department. He always has on the pleated khaki pants and the monogrammed short-sleeve button-up shirt. Wears the black “Tupac: Thug Life” tee shirt on casual Fridays. You know who the fuck I’m talking about. Anyway Sanjay put together this bad-ass Excel Macro that will keep our entire draft sorted out AND we can display this on a projector screen on the wall at Hooters. They are going to move the giant framed poster of Bob Hope getting kissed on both cheeks by Hooters girls off the back wall so we can project the Excel draft there. It will be fucking awesome and this way any random people who happen to be at Hooters eating lunch on a random Saturday in August with no major sporting events on TV will be able to see how fucking badass we are.

For those of you who keep asking which night we’re going to get together during the season: You’re all fucking retards. Ummmm, which weeknight, other than Monday, does the NFL regularly televise football games and Applebee’s offer $2.00 Miller Lite 20oz’ers? Oh, only Monday you say? Well then I guess its still Monday night that we’re getting together to crush wings, pound beers, and watch football, dipshits. I’m fed up to my fucking tits with all the bitching from some of you guys about conflicts of interest on Monday nights. Guess what, we all have to make sacrifices in order to fulfill the obligations that matter most to us. And if getting together at a local chain restaurant on the side of the freeway to chug coldies and watch two teams that we don’t even root for play football isn’t at the top of your priority pyramid, then maybe you need to get your fucking life together. People are bitching about work, lawns, ballet lessons….yes, BALLET LESSONS! (Sorry Steve, your daughter is cute but lets face reality: She isn’t going to be invited to join the Bolshoi Ballet anytime soon. I know your wife has had a MS flare-up and is in a wheel chair, but I’ll tell you the same thing I told you on your wedding day: You have to make sure she pulls her own fucking weight for this to ever work out.). My son Justin has a soccer game every Monday night this fall. I told him right up front, I’ll drop you off for every game, but I’m not watching one minute of it. And I will be too drunk to drive after the game, let alone pick you up. Besides, Oliver’s dad can give you a ride home. He is one of those douche bags that goes to all his kids’ games–sober–and pretends like he gives a shit and cheers and stuff. Its embarrassing. Its become apparent that my daughter has a serious learning disability. The only night the licensed tutor for this disability is available to work with her is Monday night. Apparently she gets paid shit and has to work a second job in the evenings Tuesday through Friday. Well guess what Ms. Liberal Whiny Bitch….if you want our $10/hour to tutor Sylvia then fucking act like it. So as you can see I’m sacrificing pointless shit in order to hit up MNF, which means you assholes can do the same. Besides, as you all know, if we want to reserve the “PLAYAZ” section at Applebee’s on Mondays, we have to have a minimum of 12 guys there.

My next point regards money. We are gambling on individual fantasy games, with cash money. Anybody who doesn’t like it can take their broke, busted ass back to some other bar and just watch football. I have no idea what the point of watching football is if you can’t have an alternate, make-believe universe of statistical competition overlapping the real football that live, tangible men are playing, but whatever floats your pansy-assed boat I guess. The cool guys are going to be gambling on the fake life dream league that we are in, deal with it. This is FANTASY FOOTBALL, not romper room. I’ve taken a serious tax penalty to cash in my kid’s college fund that I set up before either of them were born and am wallowing in cash for this season, so be ready to fantasy gamble or fucking go home.

From 10:30 a.m. until Who:Fucking:Knows this Saturday, Hooters is ours boys. Steve, if you wear those jean shorts with the Tazmanian Devil stitched on the back pocket again this year, you are fucking not getting one pick in the first round. All y’all mutherfuckers know I’m getting Peyton Manning anyway and am going to rain down fantasy beat-downs on your ass all season long, so you may as well put down as many Miller Lites as you can on Saturday before it begins.

Peace out bitches.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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