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.
