Halfway to Hell

WELL................

We're approaching week 7 here and a couple of things are painfully obvious:


#1 - For the second year in a row, I am being shit upon by the football gods for my fantasy hubris.

                                                              AND


#2 - Maurice Jones-Drew is a worthless cunthole. 


That aside, we're having ourselves a hell of a season here with everything we thought we knew in the first couple of weeks being turned on its head in the last 3.  We are at the half-way house about to make the turn and this week's match-ups are as intriguing as ever.  I'll leave the epic weekly-breakdown to my co-host Mr Mikey McNouge, and instead I will allow my thoughts to wonder around the league, in no particular order, just to give you all a window into the bitter, cold, heartless cavity that is my fantasy football soul.  Enjoy....and fuck you all.

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Ricky Dale:  You are an ass-nugget of epic proportions and I wish you'd crawl back into the anus from whence you came.  I can't believe you pulled off that win last week, tying our season series at one apiece, leapfrogging me in the standings, and adding twelve more points to our (potentially insurmountable) total points tie-breaker.  My loss fell squarely on the broad, yet diminutive, shoulders of one Maurice Jones-Drew who managed just a couple more points than he has names.  This is the second year in a row that in a pivotal moment in my fantasy season, that midget-fuck drank a gallon of suck-ass and pissed all over my face.  With any luck, Valparaiso will be wiped off the map in an effort to make the country as a whole better looking, and you will be unable to make key roster moves for the rest of the season.  The only real loss in this scenario would be Dale's music room, and the impromptu re-location of the Allen Christmas Party. 



Mikey:  God I hate you.  With every fiber of my being, and all the concentration I can muster, I often sit and try to project evil things upon your fantasy team like some revenge-crazed witch-doctor, and while I haven't yet seen results, I will undoubtedly keep trying.  We'll know it's worked when Arian Foster does, in fact, tragically lose his life in a freak bull-fighting publicity stunt gone horribly wrong, or at the very least has to sit out the rest of the season after contracting meningitis from a tainted burrito.  (Hey-it can happen. Its fucking Texas, man.)  I can only hope that your dominance continues right through the playoffs where you once again lose the Super Bowl and barrel headlong into the off-season with $80 in your hand and someone's hot  dick-cream in your ugly mouth.  Fuck you.



Dad:  Where do I begin....how bout where I left off with Mikey.  We spend SO much time analyzing, projecting, prospecting, trading, and planning, and while that certainly determines which teams are in the top-half of the league, in the end, it's just blind, stupid week-in-and-week-out luck that separates success from failure and you've had more of it than me.  You don't even particularly like horses, yet you've managed to keep one of their shoes in your asshole for 6 games now.  Impressive. 

Take for example week 2.  Zubak gets 3 points from Favre, MJD, Hines Ward, and Greg Jennings combined.  Meanwhile you get 64 points from Schaub and McCoy.  Zubak received 30 points UNDER those four player's averages, and you got 33 points OVER those two player's averages.  If it plays to the numbers on that one, you lose to Zubak 101 to 96.  Instead, you won 129 to 71. 

Or how bout week three and "the trade that never was." If you were to have acquired Calvin Johnson, you would have undoubtedly played him whereas you did NOT play Anquan Boldin that week.  This means you would have been forced to bench one of the guys that you did start.  Now you might not have started Steve Smith(Car) and put Megatron in there instead, keeping the 20 points you got from Cedric Benson in your total, and preserving your win.  However, I KNOW you would have benched Benson in favor of Steve Smith, and here's why: 

#1 -You are an incredibly unapologetic homer. You love the Panthers more than anything and I doubt you would have started Cedric Benson, a guy playing against your beloved Panthers THAT VERY week mind you, and simultaneously benched YOUR FAVORITE PLAYER IN FOOTBALL.(Of whom you have a 6 foot tall Fat Head wall sticker in your house.  Not in your bedroom that had when you were a kid.  Not in your kid's bedroom.  On your wall.  In your home, Doctor.) 

#2 - Steve Smith was coming off 12 and 13 point performances in the first two weeks and had a touchdown in each game. 

#3 - Cedric Benson was averaging just about 3 yards per carry at that time and was coming off 7 and 9 point performances in the first two weeks that would have been 1 and 9 respectively if he didn't punch in a garbage-time TD in the 4th quarter of game one.

You would have known these things, and you would have sat Benson. And you wouldn't have got his 20 points. You would instead have gotten Megatron's 5 points, and you would have lost to Mike. But you didn't. You won by 5 points.  You could easily be 3-3, maybe even 2-4, yet you're 4-1-1 and you're in first place.  Rock Hill Stars?  Rock Hill Sucks.



Barron: I would talk some epic shit about how you haven't done anything all season long and how, despite your impressive record, your recent managerial inactivity has cost you a couple of games, but you wouldn't even see it because you barely even check in on your team.  You are undoubtedly at the gym right now with Cody applying generous amounts of self-tanner and taking turns "toweling" each other off.  See you and your boyfriend at Thanksgiving, you Jonas Brother's loving, steroid eating cocksucker.
P.S. Please don't let what could be described as an "angry" diatribe affect your dissection of my current trade proposal to you.  If you even see it.  Which you won't.  Unless I write it on Cody's ass.



Frank: Where to begin?  How about with that week one tie vs. Don in the battle of "who can fit the bigger horseshoe in their ass?"  (hint: the answer is you, Frank)  That could have went either way so I'll circle back to that in a minute, and you did take a hard-fought loss in week 2, but week 3?  Despite collecting only 14 points from Clinton Portis, Miles Austin, Marques Colston, and Owen Daniels combined, you managed to fart out a 3 point win over Zubak.  Well, hell.  Sometimes you don't have the best game and the good teams find ways to win even when they don't, right? The gap in the logic there is that you don't actually have a good team.  As evidenced in week 4.  57 points, Frank.  57.  That's as many points as Kelly Robinson has victories, and he's not even a real person.  Yet you STILL managed a win by forcing yourself on a girl.  (But hey-Frank Dermody is just misunderstood, right?)  You edged Ryan Allen out in week 5 by two points and then picked a fight with a retarded kid in week 6, and despite the fact that you could easily be 1-5 right now, you currently stand tied atop our division.  You're not exactly bringing a "balanced" attack here, but then again bathroom rapists are usually students of the "ground and pound" school anyway.



Dirk: Wow.  By the end of this sentence I will have already wasted 157 keystrokes commenting on, what has to be, the single-worst fantasy season of all time.  I knew a retarded kid in high school who just walked around drooling and humming as he touched random things in between nonsensical outbursts and bouts with uncontrollable defecation.  I think his team is 2-4.  Which brings me to...... 



Ryan Allen, Zubak, Nick, and Jessica: You've all been the recipients of the opposite of Frank and Don's luck, and because of that I will spare you the sharp edge of my pen.  But you guys ARE all knotted up at 2-4 right now, and whoever doesn't gather some key victories down the stretch will end up making loud noises and throwing their own feces around aimlessly for an hour or so when they battle Dirk in the "Tard Bowl."


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Well, there you have it, folks.  Nice little feel-good, first half round-up.  You now know where I stand regarding issues(you shitheads) we're(I'm) facing in the Any Given Sunday Fantasy Football League.  You're all welcome for my time and thoughts.  See you all in week 7 and, as usual, go fuck yourselves.

Clint


P.S. Oh shit I forgot Slovy, didn't I?  Oh well.  So has everyone else.

The Eve of Destruction

On this day, the aft of the the eve of destruction, I am giddy with Pre-Christmas excitement.  I doubt I'll be able to sleep tonight as I prepare to take the first gilded step on the golden road to my inevitable christening as the 2010 Any Given Sunday Fantasy Football Champion.  Sundays will become so feared by the lot of you, that they will begin to feed off this fear as the Four Horsemen themselves gallop towards you unleashing a maelstrom of points like aggressive lightning bolts of face-melting rock and roll.  As you close your eyes and cover your ears to avoid the crushing impact of such a devastating onslaught of touchdowns, you will shiver as you realize that this thunderous eruption can only be that of Clint Hewetson and his mighty Clintonians.  And as these horsemen retreat mercifully for 6 days of terror-inducing anticipation, you will look upon what was once rolling hills of football happiness and gentle streams of fantasy enjoyment and see that there is now only the destitute and barren landscape of disappointment and despair they have left in their wake.

When she is mine, I will treat my beloved Trophy as I would Lord Stanley's Cup itself and it will accompany me on many a day in this great city, kindly gracing the presence of those around us with thick face-fulls of our impressive aura.  Atop Trump's majestic tower we will gaze downward from on high to observe the insignificant movements of all those tiny little people; not quite unlike observing the progress of each of your fantasy teams throughout the 14-week-long fade into mediocrity that you collectively called your "season."  As I soar majestically through the city mounted on my winged steed of brilliant achievement, I will reign down upon the masses a veritable full-release of righteousness, a green-apple splatter of superiority, and a golden shower of shameless self-promotion so grandiose that they too can feel, if only for the briefest of moments, what I feel every day when I wake up to breathe in the delicious aroma of your collective failure. 

And as I help myself to hot cup of championship coffee I will savor a taste none of you will ever know because coffee gentlemen, as we all know, is for closers.  I will gaze upon the kingdom I have created knowing that what started with a gentle rumbling on Sunday September 12th will have ended in a glorious, luminous load of dominance blown in the eyes of the fantasy gods themselves.  And as their heads recoil from the sheer force of its awesome power, the frequency created will shatter the fragile eardrums of all eleven of you lesser mortals leaving you stumbling around in shell-shock, forced to communicate in only odd tones and weird hums as you desperately attempt to understand what just happened.  Here it comes, indeed.  Bitches.