Fantasy

I hate to admit it, but this year I caved. I went in kicking and screaming, but I caved.

I'm in a fucking fantasy baseball league.

For years, I have scoffed at, ridiculed, shunned, and wanted to kill anyone who was in a fantasy league. You know those stupid conversations you hear between two morons at a party; the ones that are only slightly less excruciating than listening to two guys talk about their golf games. They go something like this:

Moron 1: I needed J.J. Putz to get a save last night.
Moron 2: He's been great all year. He's got 38 saves, and a lot of strikeouts.
Moron 1: Yeah, but he screwed me last night and my league doesn't count strikeouts. Who's your closer?
Moron 2: Mariano.
Moron 1: He's good.
Moron 2: Yeah, but he's no Putz.
Me (hate-filled thought bubble): You two are a pair of putzes!

Yes, there really is a player named Putz (see photo) and yes I have become both Moron 1 and Moron 2. I try to reserve this type of dialog for times when innocent bystanders don't have to listen to it, but sometimes I don't. I also have a constant eye on my computer screen almost every evening, as it updates my fantasy game real-time. I also find myself staying up until 1:30 am on a Tuesday, watching Anaheim vs. Seattle on my laptop.

I mean, how noble is it to root for a Major League team or any team nowadays. These blood-sucking players and even more blood-sucking owners don't give a shit about me or any fan anymore. They played a game until 4:30 AM the other day, for crying out loud. I'm a Met fan and I'll root against specific Mets sometimes. I don't give a fuck. Like Seinfeld said, rooting for a professional team is like rooting for laundry. I figure I might as well have a stake in it, especially when the guys in my league are the biggest cock-sucker, blowhards on Earth. When they invited me to play, they needed a guy and they thought I'd be a pigeon. They can blow me now, because I wrapped up the best overall record in the league this week....oops, there goes Moron #3 - sorry.

Oh and of course I'll be doing Fantasy Football. At least I'll only be wasting two nights a week for that.

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Speaking of Football (no this will not have anything to do with Michael Vick), I flipped the channel to the Sunday Night Game and caught the very end of the Keith Olbermann show. He signed off by saying Good Night and Good Luck. Wasn't that Edward R. Murrow's sign off? He then threw the papers on his desk at the camera. Isn't that Letterman's thing?

Just what we need on television - plagiarized irreverence...and irrelevance.


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Speaking of irrelevance, there is a column in the New York Post on Sundays that is so incoherent, and at the same time, derivative that I have to destroy it here and now.

By writing this, I'm sort of encouraging you to read it (including the link above does that too I guess). It's the last thing I want to do, but I want you to see for yourself how puke-inducing it really is.

It's called About Last Night and it's written by some twit named Mandy Stadtmiller. She's this chick-lit peddling, cutsey pie-nicknaming, Carrie Bradshaw wannabe. I know she'll see this; and not because I emailed her this blog address (while telling her how much she sucks) but because she's the type of person who probably Googles herself 12 times a day. The column is this nauseating, quasi stream of consciousness account of her dating life.

She's the type of person whose aspirations no doubt include having her pink and yellow covered Chick-lit bullshit novel in the new releases bin at Barnes and Noble, as well as making a guest appearance on one of those VH-1, "I Love the 70's" shows. You know those fourth rate comedians who make those unfunny comments about Ralph Mouth or Dick Clark...that's her. In fact, on her bio section of her website Mandy Stadtmiller, you'll see that she lists her one and only interest as "listing her credits". Yeeeeesh.

The picture of her on top of her column is kinda cute, but it's a grainy black and white, so who knows what she looks like. The main reason I'm spewing so much shit her way is due to the simple fact that she cannot write. She has no right taking up space in my Sunday paper...no more right than I have. Okay, I'm jealous. Is that you're simplistic analysis, ya pricks? Go ahead, you're entitled to feel that way, but it's only partly true.

When I challenged her to a 'write-off', she declined. She sited that her army of literary agents would feel it's inappropriate. Oooooh. That really sticks it too me. She has literary agents and I don't. B.F.D. I'm sure she has many more Google entries than I have too. It still doesn't make her any less shitty of a writer.

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Identify the following sound: gdluuunnnkkkygdunkkk bdddnnnfrshhhhhhh ptfptfffffushh pudubb dud.

Answer: A 6 foot, 1 inch, 40 year old man, in full backpeddle, tripping over his own ankles, spastically crashing on to an astro-turf field, curling up into a ball and rolling to a stop. (the part where he looks up and watches helplessly as I burn him for touchdown does not make a sound.)

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