Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Blogging Your Face Off

As a filler for all (whoever you are) who wait for my eventual "breakthrough" inaugural blog entry, here's a look into the sick world of fantasy football taunting. This is my first weekly round-up for my league, and I'm sharing it only to give any lonely soul reading this an idea of the tone this "blog" will strive for. Sure, you won't know who any of these people are, and you won't understand any of the inside jokes. Still, you'll at least get the tone and jokes about Poison.

Until that first, original entry, enjoy:

As I write this, I'm listening to The Beatles' "Back In The USSR."

Why? Well, I wanted to get into a mindset of familiarity to write this stupid fantasy football shit for the 15th year in-a-row. I've been listening to The Beatles since my fat head emerged from a Jeanne Farrell c-section back in 1978, so do you see the parallels?

It's time for another year of jokes about Sam's affinity for Aerosmith, stone-wash jeans, and slanted, blanket statements, like "Terrell Davis is the best running back of all time." It's time to discuss Abe's love for marijuana, even though his old lady has straightened him out to the degree that he now owns multiple pairs of pressed chinos -- and wears them regularly. "Big Guy loves liquor" jokes will follow, as will digs at Phelps, Oneida, and Colin, who most of us only know as "the guy who works with Baker, wears a Red Wings hat, and has a shitty team every year."

And, as usual, there will be no jokes about Thielman. JT is my Buffalo Messiah, and this rule is my 11th commandment.

Without further adieu, let's get this thing rolling. In honor of Baker's new Jersey land acquisition, Springsteen's "The Ties That Bind" is now serenading this typing, this week's Farrell Four.

1. The Man vs. The Machine - During our on-line draft in August, Sam poured himself a nice, crisp glass of Powerade, put a pencil behind his ear, and laid out his resources across the Man Room floor. He gave Kelly enough copies of US Weekly to last well into the Nutley night. Then, amongst his commemorative plates and freaky Don Mattingly figurines, he started to draft the catalysts who would unite as Vick's Doggy Day Care. In Week One, he faced a man who handed his draft over to technology, disappearing into the Charleston night to drink his weight in rum. Would Sam's savvy picks of Brandon Jones, DJ Hackett, and Tony Scheffler pay big dividends? Absolutely not. BG stomped Sam "Bill Polian" Konz (81-58) on opening week, holding that aforementioned trio to 1 point. Ol' Shawn even had the audacity to start fantasy poison Eddie Kennison (0 points), who hasn't been good since Crystal Pepsi was cool (which is to say "never").

2. Points Are Pointless - Both Abe and Colin's team lit up their respective scoreboards in Week One, posting 106 and 101. Unfortunately, neither have a "w" to show for their explosions. Still, I Haven't Pissed Since 2/2007 established himself as a force to be feared, giving his Phelps Phoes and loathsome league champions Fear Chuck a scare without relying on large numbers from LT, Alge Crumpler, or Deuce McAllister (who was only drafted to appease Abe's iron-fisted old lady). As for The Steamed Hams, they could make noise this year, but will not depend on Plaxico Burress to hump out 35 points per week. With Travis Henry in the backfield, they will produce -- and reproduce. If there were points awarded for illegitimate children or pending paternity suits, I would give The Steamed Hams the money now and seek shelter from the downpour of Henry-ish kin.

3. Points Are Pointless 2 - In the war of attrition that was The Electric Mayhem's battle with Ice Tray Warriors, the points were hard to come by. Stephen Jackson fisted my squad with one point, Vernon Davis laid an egg, and Matt Jones took his own pointless dump on JT's sidelines. Though his lust for Asian prostitutes is still unmatched, Shayne Graham was held out by Mayhem management, causing a dearth of points in the kicking game. Still, his squad squeaked past the Warriors 55-48, in what was the worst game of any kind since the Bills' 9-6 Orchard Park win over the Dolphins in 1988. With this match-up behind me, I'd like to petition the commissioner to see to it that I'm no longer forced to face Thielman. In every one of our tilts, I feel like we're replicating the scene from "Braveheart" when the Scottish approach the Irish for battle: as Buffalonians, we're always fighting off the cruel hand of regional fate (i.e. the Everett injury and last-second Elam kick); when asked to face another man of my ilk (even Northtown trash), I'll always lie down my sword (or mouse). That's why I told Phillip Rivers to take a shit against Chicago and to take Vince Jackson with him; this at least made the game closer. Thielman, we should unite the clans and we'll be unstoppable. Unite us!

4. The "Fell Asleep In A Parking Lot" Boner Of The Week - In honor of Big Guy's asphalt slumber party a few week's back, I'm giving out this new award weekly. The first one goes to Hiscox who, instead of assuming Randy Moss would light up the Jets' secondary like Sam's Zippo at a Poison concert, he started Kevin Curtis and Jerry Porter. Moss went ballistic, scoring 27 points, and would have led NRD to a Week One triumph over the unpredictable Boat Racerz. Instead, Curtis and Porter combined for seven points, leading a drunken Hiscox to his own parking lot of shame. Spooning this week's isolated lamp post and reeking of gin, he should be ashamed.

Until next week, get ready for Smash and the Dillon Panthers, do not videotape defensive signals, and buy multiple copies of my book (Week One cheap plug) at

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