Fantasy Football Team Names My Son Suggested

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

No, I’m not talking about Christmas or when I invite the neighbors over to line up and motorboat my man-tits. Rather, I’m referring to fantasy football season, something with which I share a love/hate relationship, as I’ve previously outlined here and here.

It’s like my relationship with diarrhea. I hate the pain, panic and occasional monthly instances of gambling and losing, but I love jettisoning the poison out of myself.

Really, there’s no relation whatsoever to fantasy football, but like Chekhov’s Gun Rule dictates–one must never place a loaded rifle on the stage if it isn’t going to go off–I placed a diarrhea reference on the page, and therefore I had to go into more detail. I’ll call it David’s Diarrhea Rule because I’m a fucking literary and fecal master.

But I diarrhgress.

The expression “The joy of victory and the agony of defeat” applies most profoundly to we fantasy football “athletes”, even more so than the actual NFL players. We’re the ones putting our egos and reputations on the line in front of our computers, not you concussion, opiate sickness-addled pussies. For nothing brings me greater pleasure than winning my week and greater despair than losing because my first two draft picks shit the bed for a combined 6 points.

Oy gevalt, the work and emotion one must devote to this hobby! From draft prep, the draft itself, choosing the right starting lineups to waiver wire maneuvers, injuries, incessant bitching about unfair trades and accusations of collusion. It’s enough to make you want to…keep playing every year.

To add another layer of complexity, I’m due for a team name change.

A lot of thought or none at all goes into the naming ritual. There are clever names like A Mingo Ate My Brady, referring to Barkevious Mingo and Tom Brady, perverted names like Two in the Pink One in the Stink or Shocker? Barely Even Know Her, and unsubtle names like The White Ropes Sprayers–to what could that possibly be referring?

I chose to go the tasteless route with my team name of three seasons, drawing inspiration from this tragic story: “Chicago Police Horse Dies Patrolling Beach“, which by its obscure headline, you’d never know what it was about. As it happens, Officer Paul Casasanto watched his thoroughbred Mikey C. up and croak in the line of duty.

I don’t own a horse, but apparently if you’re a horse-owner, it’s sad when they die.

I could have punned with a name like Equinety For All, but I chose to offend with I Love Pictures of Dead Horses. Simple but tasteless, just like I intended. In fact, my team logo is the dearly departed Mikey C:


Why Beat a Dead Horse?

“He was like family to me,” a tearful Officer Casasanto is quoted in the article. Really, officer? Do you bury all your relatives in Hefty bags? I’m sure Mikey C. felt that strong familial bond when you failed to outfit his corpse at least with a proper horse body bag. And what kind of name is Mikey C? Did any lawbreakers actually feel threatened by a police horse who sounded like he could have fronted a horse boy band?

Since picking my disgraceful team name, my fantasy record has gotten progressively worse, and perhaps it’s good old karma. Mikey C. has been laughing down on me from horse heaven, and I suppose it serves me right.

I decided it was time for a change, and who better to help me choose a new fantasy football team name than my mischievous six-year-old son?

I was unaware, though, that he would implement a screening process that made me justify why I play fantasy football in the first place.

“Do you want to help me pick a new fantasy football name?” I asked him.

“Okay. But wait, why do you need a team name?”

“You know, to be creative.”

“Okay. Wait, how do you play fantasy football again?”

“We have a draft, and we all pick players who score points for us. Whatever team does the best, wins.”

“Are you actually playing in the games?”

“No. Remember, I’m 38 and when I look down I can’t see my junk because my food baby’s in the way?”


“Well people like me usually don’t play professional sports. I mean pitchers get away with it somehow.”

“Why would you play a game if you’re not actually playing or scoring the points?”

“Because…I…what? Well why do you play Xbox if you’re not actually playing?”

“Actually I am playing Dad. When I play the soccer game, I actually kick my feet and the ball goes in the net, and I score my own points. Yeah, I just got you served.”

I took a deep breath.

“I play because I have fun doing it, and I even won the league once.”

“You haven’t won since I’ve been alive.”

Another deep breath.

“I hope that will change this year.”

“What can you win again?”


“Like one hundred dollars?”

“Like eight hundred and twenty dollars, plus another one hundred and fifty if I score the most points.”

His eyes lit up. “Will you buy me Lego sets?”

“Only if you help me with a team name.”

“Okay, I’ll help you.”

After a nine second brainstorming session, here is the list of team names he came up with:

  • Balls
  • Penis
  • Vagina
  • Detroit Lions
  • Bean Fart
  • Kill Kill Kill
  • Texting Like an Idiot
  • A Great White Shark Killing Toby Gerhart
  • The Fucks
  • Penis Poo Poo Diarrhea Penis Vagina Poo Poo
  • LeBron James Has the Worst Breath Ever It Smells Like Rotten Fish Going Up His Rectum
  • His Balls (LeBron James’) Smell Like the Grossest Thing Ever

I can’t decide. Do you have any suggestions?

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    Chocolate Diapers

    I am a vitamin D-deficient former Floridian--who, despite the winter--loves Chicago. I contradicted convention (and common sense) by moving FROM the beach to the Midwest, but Lou Malnati's and any Italian beef sandwich reinforce that I made the right decision. I also got a wife and two sons out of it, and I would do anything for my family, except miss a Miami Hurricanes football game. This is my take on fatherhood. You can contact me at Thank you for reading!

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