Guess what? I met someone. Guess what he likes that I never thought I would? Yeah, that funny looking game with the men in tight pants who run that even funnier-looking conically shaped ball down a field that is how many yards? How many? Think, think fast. Oh, and I bet you didn’t know that when they pick up that phone on the sidelines they are not calling their moms to discuss their injuries.
My whole life I have had a hard time understanding how anyone could get so emotionally worked up about watching a team of neanderthals run a 15 ounce object down a field as if it were a golden nugget; as if it were the determining factor in whether or not their saviour the lord jesus christ greeted them at the gates of heaven with a high five. What was even harder to understand was, why are people watching this? Why on earth would I want to help someone who is infinitely richer than me continue to get richer and the only thing they have to do for it is take some hits off an oxygen tank and get the shit beaten out of them every weekend. Hey, for 30 million in mad cheddar, you can throw me down to the ground and pump me full of as much compressed air as you want. Ok. I realize I completely simplified the complexity of the game in my head, but still, don’t expect me to get emotional about something so trivial, so childish, so… FREAKIN AWESOME!
Enter Fantasy Football stage left. Where have you been all my life? I get to name my team and pick my own players? I get to talk as much smack as I want, in fact it is encouraged that I call people cunt giblets and smegma juice etc., and whenever I am bored at work I can scrutinize my line-up and make fun of others. Call me a traitor but the last four weeks have brought me endless hours of entertainment. A sneakily comforting feeling on Sundays of lying on the futon with my book while the games are on in the background, and holy shit– I am a full-fledged American! I wear blue jeans, I drink beer, and now, oh yes, I watch Fútbol Americano and I like it. You can’t keep me out of your little gringo club anymore. I know what a dink and dunk is and Brett Favre can kiss my ass.
I just realized how horribly manipulated and brainwashed I’ve been into sacrificing all of my principles. Whatever. Come this Sunday, I hope you hear me screaming “Run Addai you motherfucker run!” into the boob tube and enjoy it just as much as I do.
Image from http://www.bustedtees.com/fantasyfootball
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