Anyone who plays fantasy football knows there is a message board. In the past 12 hours, my last opponent responded to my smack talk and then I offered somewhat of a rebuttal. Not really, it was more of a concession speech. We've had some good exchanges, but this tops them all.
Last night my victorious adversary came out with this gem:
Hopper, Hopper, Hopper...my DEAR Hopper! You know, as I get older, sometimes I am forced to realize that I'm never going to fulfill all the dreams of my youth...I'm never gonna play pro football or roam center field for the Yanks, I'm never gonna be super rich or famous. Nah, I'll just struggle along and hope for the best like everybody else. Maybe it's a mid-life crisis thing, I don't know. But this realization can be tough. It first struck me a couple of years ago, and I have to say, it was hard. I was a little down, maybe even depressed.....then Zak talked me into joining a new rotisserie league that was being run by Jay, who I knew somewhat from another roto league, and I decided to give it a shot. Why not? Little did I know that all was about to change. Yes Hopper...because it was through this new league that I met you...and life would never be the same. I have found true happiness again...because I have run into a walking cartoon. A guy who hits himself in the face with a cream pie every time he opens his mouth. How could I be sad ever again in the presence of such a world class buffoon? I mean, time and again, I wallow in roto mediocrity, in despair. And then, like a giant garden slug...you slither over, dragging your great big tits and belly between your legs, to kick sand in my face, like the playground bully you wish you were ever tough enough to be. But' like magic, your gibes raise me from the ashes like a phoenix, and spur me on to a winning streak! By golly, its just amazing. I told you I'd kick your fucking ass and I have done so. (And you cry about being scored against...imagine how nice I'd be looking if I hadn't lost 2 games by 2 points)... so I'll say it again...SQUEAL LIKE A PIG, FAT BOY!!! It's been pleasurable, albeit disgusting, ass raping you. Yes; Its a Wonderful Life!
Here was all that I could muster in return. I felt like the bad guy in Manhunter when he yells "you owe me AWE!"
Last night as I lay naked, covered in a sea of chips, salsa and stale beer, my mood was solemn. The rigors of a long work day which had followed the usual drunken binge the previous night had me down. And then it happened. My phone notified me that someone cared enough to contact me. I pressed the button with anxious enthusiasm, could this be the girl I met the other day? Could this be the cute cabana boy from last summer? I couldn't wait. and then I see it. Reilly. My smile suddenly turned upside down and I knew the inevitable had come. My loss the previous week was about to be thrown in my face like a Peter North money shot. And then I started to read. Tears welled up in my eyes like a swollen scrotum. This was not a half-hearted put down, oh no, this was prose of a level of which I've rarely seen on a fantasy football message board. I thought to myself, of the twelve people in this league who else could wax poetic at this level. Then I thought about the other ten mental midgets and realized no one. MY admiration for Phil grew. In a semi-aroused state, I smiled. And then, as instructed, I squealed like a pig. Somewhere Ned Beatty is smiling....as am I.
Last night my victorious adversary came out with this gem:
Hopper, Hopper, Hopper...my DEAR Hopper! You know, as I get older, sometimes I am forced to realize that I'm never going to fulfill all the dreams of my youth...I'm never gonna play pro football or roam center field for the Yanks, I'm never gonna be super rich or famous. Nah, I'll just struggle along and hope for the best like everybody else. Maybe it's a mid-life crisis thing, I don't know. But this realization can be tough. It first struck me a couple of years ago, and I have to say, it was hard. I was a little down, maybe even depressed.....then Zak talked me into joining a new rotisserie league that was being run by Jay, who I knew somewhat from another roto league, and I decided to give it a shot. Why not? Little did I know that all was about to change. Yes Hopper...because it was through this new league that I met you...and life would never be the same. I have found true happiness again...because I have run into a walking cartoon. A guy who hits himself in the face with a cream pie every time he opens his mouth. How could I be sad ever again in the presence of such a world class buffoon? I mean, time and again, I wallow in roto mediocrity, in despair. And then, like a giant garden slug...you slither over, dragging your great big tits and belly between your legs, to kick sand in my face, like the playground bully you wish you were ever tough enough to be. But' like magic, your gibes raise me from the ashes like a phoenix, and spur me on to a winning streak! By golly, its just amazing. I told you I'd kick your fucking ass and I have done so. (And you cry about being scored against...imagine how nice I'd be looking if I hadn't lost 2 games by 2 points)... so I'll say it again...SQUEAL LIKE A PIG, FAT BOY!!! It's been pleasurable, albeit disgusting, ass raping you. Yes; Its a Wonderful Life!
Here was all that I could muster in return. I felt like the bad guy in Manhunter when he yells "you owe me AWE!"
Last night as I lay naked, covered in a sea of chips, salsa and stale beer, my mood was solemn. The rigors of a long work day which had followed the usual drunken binge the previous night had me down. And then it happened. My phone notified me that someone cared enough to contact me. I pressed the button with anxious enthusiasm, could this be the girl I met the other day? Could this be the cute cabana boy from last summer? I couldn't wait. and then I see it. Reilly. My smile suddenly turned upside down and I knew the inevitable had come. My loss the previous week was about to be thrown in my face like a Peter North money shot. And then I started to read. Tears welled up in my eyes like a swollen scrotum. This was not a half-hearted put down, oh no, this was prose of a level of which I've rarely seen on a fantasy football message board. I thought to myself, of the twelve people in this league who else could wax poetic at this level. Then I thought about the other ten mental midgets and realized no one. MY admiration for Phil grew. In a semi-aroused state, I smiled. And then, as instructed, I squealed like a pig. Somewhere Ned Beatty is smiling....as am I.
Comments
Post a Comment