When Fantasy Gets Real… Mad Real.

Week 7 Wrap.

Don traded away 89 points from his roster last week and still fucking won? 

I had taken the time Monday to assemble a fairly epic requiem honoring Don's week of unprecedented tradefail. It was statistically enlightening, personally insulting to Don himself, and full of anagrams of the names of the three players he traded. In the aftermath of some garbage time yardage on a final Dallas drive that literally meant nothing to anyone, including the 1,000 or so fans that stuck around to the end of the game, this fantasy eulogy is now a defunct homage to the massive fail that would have been, were it not for the now infamous 33 yards gained by the Kitna-Witten Express on that fateful drive, which provided Don with exactly enough points to pull out the W.

So without further adieu, the failure that never was, yet will always be…

********

The Tradewinds are a-blowin' (as is Don's decision-making skills). So Don's trade-happy tendencies have finally bit him in the big one. Last week Don managed to trade away the week's highest scoring TE (Heap, 17) and top TWO WRs (Britt, 40; White, 32). Ouch! This might set an all time record for worst set of transactions by a team since the Vikings traded for Herschel Walker. To put this in proper perspective (if that's even possible), the 3 players that Don traded away so carelessly would have been enough by themselves to beat his own team this week, along with 5 other teams. Damn, Don… damn.

Picking up the pieces. It's not surprising then, that Don decided to take Monday off from work, lay in bed, and attempt to audibly sob away his pain. Decibel levels in Rock Hill are approaching jet engine levels today, folks. Especially after Sunday night, when his kicker was locked in as his highest scorer for the week. I'm laughing out loud at you, Don. In a loud and boisterous manner. At a Starbucks. I have laughed all day today, each time that I think about these trades. At least the Panthers finally won a game. Hopefully Witten and Austin perform well this evening, doing just well enough that your favorite player's fumble costs you the week. Still laughing.

Piling on. In related news, Don, if you scramble the letters of the names of the three players that you traded, you come up with these gems:

-Bedridden kitty won't wed a trophy.

-Witty be he, kind Don traded trophy bid.

-Web deity think(s) Don traded trophy.     ("s" added for syntax)

-Bedded honky nitwit trade(s) trophy.       ("s" added for syntax)

Anagrams are my new favorite things.

A Maharanee fag envys ringworm tits.

Hat tip to Clint for the anagram fun. (Ed: Looks like the Web deity is a fucking idiot now, huh?)

*******

And back to reality. So Don's (I'm running out of adjectives) trades last week. Nobody deserves to win after a trading period that terrible. Yet you did, Don. You did. You netted a negative 47 points in those trades and still won. If this has happened before, which I highly doubt, it occurred in a league where the league manager was Satan himself. So instead, I present to the league:

"A Week in the Life of Don 'The Magic Juan' Heweston"

Monday 11:40pm. Don falls asleep happily after a week 6 win over Barron, as Chris Johnson and soon to be traded Kenny Britt outpaced Barron's K Rob Bironas.

Tuesday 10:00am. In between appointments at his practice, Dr. Don looks to make an adjustment to his fantasy team, which is up on his office screen at all times. After throwing out overtures to all 11 of his league compatriots, he finds a taker in one Mr. Clint Hewetson. Roddy White for MJD becomes reality. 

Thursday 11:47am. Don rosterbates quietly in his office to his unbelievable fantasy lineup that includes the #1 and #3 picks in the draft: Chris Johnson and MJD.

Thursday 12:04pm. Still sweating mildly from his rosterbatory activities, Dr. Don gets a ESPN Player Alert text that his starting TE Dallas Clark is out for the season with a broken wrist. Don looks down at his hand, briefly wondering if his spank session butterfly-effected this sad turn of events before laughing it off.

Thursday 12:05pm. Panic sets in. Unsure of the status of his backup TE Todd Heap, due to a nasty concussion-inducing hit from Brandon Merriweather (if you don't know what I'm talking about, I demand your league entry fee to be paid immediately), Don hits the trade block.

Thursday 12:22pm. Offer goes out to one Mikey McNouge. Heap AND Clark AND Pettigrew for Witten. The doctor is clearly desperate. Mike laughs him off. Living in Indy, Mike is aware of Dallas Clark's season-ending status due to the tornado sirens that have been activated. Mike declines the trade.

Thursday 1:54pm. Don and Mike continue to work through bye week issues that are hindering the likelihood of a sans-Clark trade. Don requests that Mike "lend a nigga a pencil". Mike complies with a trade offer of Witten and Driver for Heap and Britt although expressing that Don should feel free to counter without the WRs included in the deal, and Mike would still accept.

Thursday 2:02pm. Don, distracted by watching and rewatching the clip above, and fighting the clock to squeeze out another self-pleaser before his 2:15pm appointment, accepts the trade as-is.

Thursday 2:08pm. Don, heads to his next appointment and forgets to sanitize his hands. No harm comes of this other than a little inner guilt - which quickly passes - after shaking hands with his patient.

Saturday 9:30pm. After getting caught up on DVR'd episodes of Project Runway, Don checks his fantasy lineup and player news one last time, and reinvigorated by this unstoppable lineup retreats to his bedroom and throttles his wife like a burly Clydesdale stallion mane-deep in mating season.

Sunday 9:25am. It's Football Day in America. Don sits down in his Carolina Panthers pajama bottoms and Steve Smith jersey (true) to a delicately prepared breakfast of made-from-scratch football-shaped pancakes (just the way he likes them!), butter already applied in a fashion kind of similar to laces and leftover McDonald's french fries arranged on his plate to look like goalposts. The previous night's conquest has clearly left Mrs. Don in a giving mood. He let's out a sigh "Damn!" he thinks to himself, "This is going to be a great day!"

Sunday 12:52pm. Unfortunately for Don, those made-from-scratch pancakes weren't quite cooked all the way though before being plated and served. And the thing about consuming undercooked pancakes is this: they're thick and buttery on the way in, and tend to behave as such on the way out, too.

Sunday 1:48pm. Upset from having missed at least the first quarter of the Panthers game, as well as having utilized all of the toilet paper and kleenex within dropped-pants-waddling distance, Don resorts to using washcloths and other various bathroom linens to clean up the mess that Mrs. Don created (damn those pancakes!). It's going to be a rough week of laundry in the Hewetson household. But none of that matters now. All that matters is how the Panthers are doing. The ROCK HILL STARS have yet to cross the good doctor's mind as he still considers them a lock for the week with the whole galaxy consuming force that is his backfield.

Sunday 2:23pm. With the shitty mess behind him mentally-, physically- and chronologically-speaking, Don looks to rekindle the joy he felt after that first bite of flapjacks. He sits in his La-Z-Boy. The Panthers are tied at halftime. HOORAY! They have the opportunity to take the lead for the first time since the first half of the first game of the season (which they lost). Jim Brown comes on screen for the halftime recap. No, that's Jimmy Johnson's perma-tan. Don yells to Mrs. Don - who's in the bathroom, um, cleaning - telling her to get him scheduled for an eye exam.

Sunday 2:25pm. After seeing highlights from the Falcons and Titans respective games, a sinking feeling sets in. Don quickly thinks through why Kenny Britt and Roddy White sound so familiar. "NO! I traded them. BOTH. They're having career days, and last week they were on MY roster!!" PANIC. He flips open his laptop. FEAR. He clicks to the league scoreboard. DESPAIR. Mike and Clint are thrashing their opponents, while Don is struggling against his daughter who's on a 4 game skid after starting 2-0. Don tries to undo the damage, but it's too late.

Sunday 4:07pm. Furiously refreshing the scoreboard hoping, wishing that something will change, even though there are no active games, Don throws up a little in his mouth. Partly because of the pancakes, but mostly because he's realizing the extent of the failure that is his roster management skills. The Clydesdale is no more. 

Sunday 7:58pm. Don currently leads Jessica by a point. She has Aaron Rodgers and Roy Williams still to play. Don has Miles Austin and Witten in his cannon, yet his mighty cannon is feeling more pop-gunish by each passing play. Don begins to feel a little ill. Again. He b-lines to the bathroom but Mrs. Don heads him off. Having just finished a 7 hour cleanup and rehanging the twice-washed shower curtain, she forbids his entry. Not again, buddy. Too depressed and sick and woefully inadequate-feeling to argue, Don hops in the SS Camaro and hopes that all 400+ horses will get him to the Perkins down the street in time to handle the only business he can still - barely - control.

Sunday 9:52pm. Don returns from the Perkins. Sweaty, flushed, and weak, he walks in from the garage and trips over the threshold, collapsing face-first into a basket of yet-to-be-washed washcloths in the laundry room from his earlier endeavor. "WHY GOD? WHY?!" He thinks he screams, but it escapes through his larynx as nothing more than a whimper. He gathers himself, still-mint-condition Panthers PJs and all, and heads upstairs to take a shower and go to bed. "Fuck Sunday Night Football Fuck Cris Collinsworth. Al Michaels, too." Don mutters to himself. He quickly takes it back, but can't find the DirecTV remote that doubled as an ass scratcher during Monday Night Football the week before.

Monday 7:27am. Don, having woken up every 45 minutes the previous night to vacate either his bowels or his esophagus, calls in sick to work. Today the good doctor needs to focus on self-healing his body and psyche.

Monday 10:45am. Mrs. Don asks if Don would like some pancakes for breakfast. Don screams at her for her insensitivity and calls the Dallas front office to get in contact with M. Austin and J. Witten express the import of their performance tonight, but falls asleep when he gets put on hold. 

Monday 1:21pm. Don wakes up to a busy signal. He heads downstairs and grabs his laptop and brings it back to bed. DAMN! Losing by 17 points. Witten and Austin vs. Roy Williams. Rodgers two picks the night before have given him a fighting chance.

Monday 9:00pm. Romo goes down with a broken clavicle and the echo of laughter from the universe reaches Don's inner ears. Nobody even knows who the backup QB for Dallas is. Shit. It's Jon Kitna. Two hours pass without an offensive first down. Don eyes the kitchen knives reluctantly. He briefly considers any outcome where he doesn't have to face those assholes in his fantasy league a good one. 

Tuesday 12:02am. Kitna to Witten for 24 yards in absolute fucking garbage time. The unthinkable has happened. Don has tied things up with Jessica. A moment later another pass for 9 yards. Now the impossible has happened. After trading away -47 fantasy points in a single week, Don has won, yet again, 82-81. He heads to the bathroom - feeling much better, thank you - turns on the exhaust fan, and evacuates the last of the fantasy evil that remained from the preceding week. It's morning in America, and the sun shines upon Don "The Magic Juan" Hewetson.

Fin.

As the League Turns...

Week 4 Recap. HA! So all I'm really interested in discussing is that heading into the CHI/NYG game I held a 56 point lead over Dirk, 89-33. He had Jay Cutler, Devin Hester and Greg Olsen starting in that game, the three of which combined for a total of one point (-4, 2, and 3, respectively). One. Well played, Chicago Bears, well played. 

But while we're at it, we may as well talk about Clint getting thrashed by Nick, favored by 45, yet losing by 38 and Barron losing to Zoobs to eliminate all the perfect records in the league. 

Don the Magic Juan is still unbeaten, but has the distinction of a tie on his record. Oh, the shame, the humanity. Jessica got abused domestically, yet again, and now sits at the .500 mark. That sandwich keeps looking less and less likely. 

My 73 point domination of Dirk is tops for the week, and I now sit atop the league in scoring. Suck it. The Sissy Fight of the Week goes to Frank and Jessica, which if they combined their scores would still have lost to myself, Nick, and The Old Dongslinger, Zoobie. Barron's loss locks us up at the top of the west division, with the tiebreaker for general awesomeness going to yours truly (but not that truly).

Week 5. So here we are. Well, here I am, anyway, covered in baby feces and spitup (picture not included, you're welcome!), and filled with a sense of joy that none of you will ever experience: the knowingness of championship fantasy season. Who knows where you mutt fucks are. Although I do know that DirkaDirka and Clint (and perhaps Jessica "n't break .500" Hewetson, as well) are visiting The League Elder in NC, so be sure to be on the lookout for any shady incestual/ancestral trades that occur over the next few days, as it's a virtual lock that once more than one Hewetson is in a room, diabolical scheming and plotting doth occur, although generally with funny and ineffectual outcomes. In related news, the state of North Carolina braces for shocking behavior unmatched since Strom Thurmond's love child was thrust into the limelight. 

And I'm pretty sure Josh is in a dark room somewhere progressing through his new Intermediate Yoga DVD's hoping to Tongue Kiss His Own Shithole at some point in the near future (stay classy, Slovy). Zoobers is likely watching this attempt to transgress unwritten laws of self-pleasuring, moist towel in hand. 

On the east coast I know my bro Nick is in Boston, licking the wounds of a failed BoSox season - if he's lucky, Amanda's doing the licking for him - while lamenting about a dying ember that was once a great and mighty flame - a beacon fire for those lost in the wilderness of unfulfilled promises and disappointing seasons - as he abandons his once great love for the Purple and Gold; Ryan Allen currently walks aimlessly through the streets of midtown Manhattan wearing his Jim Miller #15 Chicago Bears jersey, being spat upon and having feces thrown upon him by native New Yorkers as he still tries, John Nash style, to unravel the mystery of just what the hell went wrong Sunday night with his beloved Bears. The answer (nothing, they just suck, just like last year and the year before and the decade before that) will not penetrate his delicate psyche until well into his 40s. 

His little bro Eric is engaged in this same walk of shame and despair, albeit in Lincoln Park, Chicago, a tad more weepishly, in his #8 Rex Grossman jersey, and with the spittle and feces being hurled upon him in a much more sympathetic manner, but hurled nonetheless. 

(side note: it's amazing how easy it is to google image search Chicago QB fumbles, you don't even need to include the word "fumble" in your search criteria)

Frank sits just outside Pittsburgh, waiting for the "triumphant" return of "The Bathroom Attendant with All the Right Moves" (thank you, Zoobie, for that one) and hoping that he's placed in isolation, away from all mildly- to non-attractive women in a 3 state radius. 

looks like a stand-up guy to me

Barron sits quietly in Bedford because, well, that's what you do when you're in Bedford.

This week Barron and I challenge for the outright lead in the west division, while Jessica and Zoobs fight for respectability and relevance, along with Eric and Nick, and Frank and Ryan. Don looks to waltz (that's what you old people do in your free time, right?) to 4-0-1 against his winless son, Dirk. So much for the apple falling from the tree analogy. Clint is favored by even more this weekend against Slovy than he was last weekend against Nick, so I'm expecting another Clintonian loss, in pure Clintonian fashion. 

Until next week, pussies!

I'm back. And may you all get fucked.

So after a two game hiatus of active participation in this poor excuse for a fantasy league, Mikey Clements makes his triumphant return.

What's sad, is that in my absence, not only did not anyone contribute to the excellent level of shit-talking that I established before taking leave, but all you Mick R. Tards were able to accomplish was a botched trade. Speaking of, if EDA had proposed the same deal a week earlier, there's no way i'd have reversed that trade. Don possesses a Christ-like capacity for forgiveness. I'd work on that, Don.

For reasons that should be obvious, I changed my team name to the Cate Rileys last week. This was in honor of my new daughter, born on 9/18 at 1:51am after 17 hours of labor and weighing 8 lbs 3 oz. Cate Riley Clements is pictured here...

Delmar: Everett, I never figured you for a pater familias.

Everett: Oh yes, I have spread my seed.

And for the record, it takes an F5 Tornado of a loadslinger to make a baby this cute.

However, that team lost due to a missed 20 yard field goal by Garrett Hartley in overtime, and a yard or two here or there left on the field. Or had Rodgers tossed that ball to Driver in the back of the end zone instead of running it in, I'm atop the division with the Pride of Bedford (which is not too unlike the whitehead pimple on a hemorrhoid), Barron Hewetson.

Long story short, the team name "Cate Rileys" is 1-1. One more loss and this "unconditional love" theory is out the window.

Now on to important things...

1/4. We are roughly a quarter of the way through the season, which is a perfect time for a recap and snapshot of where the league stands now. I'll do this by division so you secondary alacrity-deprived mutt-fucks don't get too confused.

In the east, Clint remains undefeated. He ranks only 7th in the league in scoring, but has by far the fewest points against. So way to go, I guess. This should catch up to you soon. Don completely fucked me this weekend and I've prayed for a plague upon his house for the past two nights as he sits a half game out. Maybe this bedbug epidemic will find it's way to Rock Hill, SC this week, and Don's crotch specifically. The rest of you bastards really need to step up to make this a competitive division (this excludes Slovy and Nick, whose seasons are already over).

In the west, as previously stated, Barron leads the division, putting up respectable scoring numbers while, like Clint, has played the weakest competition by a mile. Jessica and I are "tied", although if the playoffs started today, I would get the nod, as: 1. I'm not a woman 2. I have scored more points. Ryan Allen, Esq. sits two games out after three, and holds the distinction of just barely not being worst in the division, as Zuby and Dirk sissy fight their way to the bottom of the league.

Week 4

Perfection vs. Perfection. Two 3-0 teams take on two 0-3 teams. Clint v. Nick and Zubak v. Barron. This does not seem to be a week where teams will trend towards the mean. Life is a cruel bitch that way.

Women's League News/The Feud/Kissin' Cousins Bowl becomes the Ike & Tina Bowl. My three favorite highlights combine into one, as the only Hewetson family head-to-head matchup includes the only family member in this league without a penis battling against Jess. Last week Jessica took it on the chin from her other cousin Barron, which leaves the women's league scores at:

Jessica: 2

Barron: 1

Ryan Allen: 0
Dirk: 0

and leaves Barron with an oh-so-awkward feeling as he falls asleep at night. This week Frank hopes to make this feeling his own.

Bring out the Gimp. Ricky Dale and I look to keep Slovy and Dirk from rising up from the depths. They essentially are the personification of the gimp. You haven't heard them, they aren't self-sufficient, laugh at other's misery, and will soon be knocked the fuck out. Oh, and they don't mind it in the ass.

Average Joes. Finally, Don and Ryan battle for mediocrity. May you both fall short.

Fatherhood calls, pussies. See you on the flip side of week 4.