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.
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.
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.
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