Football. That cliché buttsport full of stuff happening to alleged persons, or rather perpetuated by alleged persons, or people, that is. Oh hey, look, it’s Adrian Peterson’s kid. Bet he’s walking funny. Hi-o! I heard A.P. bashed his kid's balls so hard Roger Goodell tried to suspend him for Deflategate. Boom! Five Dollar Footlong! That’s how you jokes!
Yeah, so we got some fantasy football upon us, yes? Our annual digital slave trade where we buy and sell avatars of footballmen in the hopes that they accomplish enough arbitrarily-valued football tasks that we can kid ourselves into thinking that we have savvy or something, right? But face it, when it comes down to it, we’re just a bunch of Meffords. We have no skill. We don’t wheel and deal and trade anything. I think there’ve been three trades in the history of the league, and they were all Gal giving up way too much value to Chad for the rights to Steve Spurrier and a pack of Bic lighters or some shit. FUN N' GUN TO LAVAR ARRINGTON AT THE 2 FOR A SAFETY! WOOOO GEAUX HOGS GEAUX!
Fact of the matter is, the only thing we know for sure is that some asshole’s gonna sign Ray Rice in week eleven, he’s gonna put up like 43 yards against the Steelers or some shit before suffering a season-ending injury and Johnny Manziel is going to have to hold his coke straw with his other hand after he gets Tommy John surgery. Do those clauses have anything to do with each other? Well, they’re in the same goddamned sentence so I guess fucking so.
Look, all I can say about the football is it’s the devil, and Chad has a tattoo of Roy Orbison on his butt, but he won’t get this joke because he’s never seen the Waterboy.
Joke’s on you, pal.
Joke’s on you.
