Listen, I throw $100 into a pool every year for the grown-up man version of Dungeons and Dragons – Fantasy Football. I’ve been in some sort of league almost every year since 1990. We used to have to get our scores out of Monday’s newspaper and hand-score them. AND I FUCKING HATE TALKING ABOUT FANTASY FOOTBALL IN REAL LIFE!
Please do not talk to me about how Julius Jones got injured and your season is going down the tube. I don’t fucking care. AT ALL. Get a fucking life. Go ahead and talk about the game, how Manning threw that incredible TD pass or how it sucks the Packers are spiraling down after Rodger’s injury, but don’t tell me how Eli Manning throwing that pick-six lost you your imaginary game. Please. Stop. Talking. Before I stab you in the throat with my Bic pen (I’ll say I was trying to perform a tracheotomy). For the love of Christ.
I can’t watch pre-game anymore because all those chucklehead meathead announcers have Fantasy segments (UGH!)… and don’t even get me started on Frank Caliendo’s bits.
To summarize, no one but you cares about your pretend team (I barely care about my own except most years I end up winning something). And you might as well turn your wife’s vagina from luke-warm to Absolute Zero (that’s negative 459 degrees Fahrenheit for you non-science geeks) by talking to her about that 3 point win over The Ryan King (in accounting) that leaves you in second place and a guaranteed spot in the playoffs.