Underpants On The Outside

This was the final week of the regular fantasy football season, and up until yesterday my team (Unconventional Foreplay) was number one in the league in both points and record.   Then we ran into the Chicago defense, and we’re still aching all over. 

I am fiercely competitive.  Admittedly, that’s a cliché, conjuring up images of the steely-eyed jock, someone with an unshakeable confidence resulting from a long history of success. Someone who says things like, “refuse to lose”.  It’s a cliché, but I think we can all agree that it describes me to a T.

Oh wait, I’m a high-strung ball of anxiety and the only part of me that could be described as steely has already been discussed on this space a number of times (and is currently not very steely at all.  Updates to come.)  The only competition I excel at is the running “who is funniest” competition between myself, my brother and his wife.  As the owner and operator of two, count ‘em two, humor-like blogs, I am clearly the winner, but I can only be so proud of myself: Thunder Lizard gives me a run for my money, but watching my brother make a joke is like watching a collie do long division: you’re not going anywhere soon unless you just do it yourself.

No, my version of “fiercely competitive” involves equal parts of the following:

a) Yelling, at a very high volume.
b) Vile, anatomically-directed curses, to be delivered at the decibel levels mentioned above.
c) A healthy level of reserved pessimism (for some reason, other people erroneously mistake this for “whining”)
d) A long memory for losses to be learned from and improved upon.  If education and improvement are unavailable, substitute with bitter comments and sour grapes instead.  (For example, I am still making snide remarks about the cubicle competition, which I don’t expect to stop for another two years or so.)

For example:  Last year, my first round fantasy draft pick (team name: The Sodomy All-Stars) was Daunte Culpepper, quarterback for the Minnesota Vikings.   Two years ago, Daunte had a terrific season.  Last year: less good.  One game, I was at our local sports bar, watching my quarterback play at a level that suggested severe nerve damage in his arm, possibly as the result of a stroke.  I got a little fed up and yelled, “Stop fucking turning the ball over!” but then the entire bar started to berate me.  That’s when they informed me that what I actually yelled was, “I HOPE YOU GET CANCER!”  Whoops.  (Later in the season, Daunte suffered a season-ending and positively horrific knee injury, but I want it clear that it was in no-way cancer related.  I also want it on the record that I do not ACUTALLY wish any carcinogenic misfortune on Daunte, and I hope he lives a long, healthy life.  On someone else’s fantasy team.  Lastly, I want it said for the record that he sucks.)

By the way, last year we weren’t even playing for money.  This year I was the clear favorite to win 120 bucks; now I’m likely going to owe the league a 30 dollar entrance fee.  Bonus.

I should have known I was doomed yesterday morning; the weather forecast in Hell was decidedly not conducive for snowball-making.  Now I think I’m going to rename my team “Unrelenting Mediocrity”.   Though, seeing as how I really want my team to win but know they’ll blow it at the end, I’m also thinking of “The Indianapolis Colts.”