The world is fucked, and we are getting fucked with it.
ISIS beheadings, Ferguson, Missouri, havoc in Hong Kong, ebola in Texas, white Bengal tigers eating unsuspecting New Delhians, minding their own business by hopping over protective zoo railings and invading dangerous predator dens, and I lost my first fantasy football game of the season.
If you’re me, losing a fantasy football game is catastrophic. Also, if you’re me that means you went bald at 19 and you have tits.
Let me put this in perspective: I started 3-0 this year, meaning I won three weeks in a row, meaning those were without exception, the happiest three weeks of my life. I was well on my to winning my fourth consecutive game until DeMarco Murray scored a billion points and ripped out all my sphincters.
Before that I was elated with my team’s performance. During a week where my number one pick, Giovani Bernard was on bye, the rest of my players really stepped it up. After the morning games, I was up by 50 with Matt Ryan and Julio Jones still to go versus Philip Rivers, Eddie Royal, DeMarco Murray, and a kicker.
I was popping the Champagne corks when Red Zone kept cutting to Rivers throwing touchdown after Goddamn touchdown to Royal. Philip Rivers looks like an angry, spoiled dick, and he throws the football like he has T-Rex arms. Eddie Royal is lucky the San Diego Chargers haven’t noticed that he snuck onto the team. Yet, these two otherwise shitty fantasy players combined for 54 points.
Still, I got decent performances out of Ryan and Jones and had a very comfortable 30 point lead, all but insurmountable ground to cover by a running back and kicker.
Now, I should have known my run was in jeopardy because I was facing My Master. He is My Master because throughout the history of our league, he always ends my winning streaks. The last time, he defeated me in the playoffs during a season I felt destined for the fantasy football Super Bowl. I had Rob Gronkowski, who before breaking and tearing every single part of his body, scored an average of 77 touchdowns a game for me. He had Aaron Hernandez, who before gunning down some people, was a pretty damn good tight end in his own right. In short, Gronkowski shat the bed, Hernandez scored all the points, and I got eliminated.
Before the Sunday night game between the Saints and Cowboys I began to feel My Master’s power take over. I decided not to watch the game, and when I checked my score at half time, my lead had been cut in half, courtesy of Mr. Murray. Usually players in fantasy do all their damage in one half, but Murray was only getting started. Late in the fourth quarter I checked again, and I was done. Murray added another 15 points, and My Master’s asshole kicker chipped in five more.
Afterward, I played the If Only Game where I reviewed my players stats and realized if only Matt Ryan–who regularly gets mistaken for Hillary Swank from Boys Don’t Cry–threw just one interception and Shaun Suisham did his job and made that 53-yard field goal, I would have won by one point.
Let the losing streak begin.
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