The 40ft Post: Total Landscaping

You ever look in the mirror and thought to yourself "Who the hell is that guy?"

Or if you're not a guy . . . "Who the hell is that person?"

OR if you're not a person . . . "Meow?"

Or if you're Frankie . . . "Meow, baby . . . meee owwww . . ."

I find myself doing that a lot these days.

Not the Frankie one . . . the guy one.

Quarantine has not been good to my skin. Nor my hairline. Nor that stretch of skin between my rib cage and my unmentionables that used to hold most of my vital organs but now seems to be holding back and entire trash bag of ambrosia.

If you're not familiar with "ambrosia" it's like a huge fruit salad mixed with jello and marshmallows.

It's outlawed in every state that votes with the cultural elite.

You can see it on a map.

As well as you can see my belly on a map.

I did not intend to get this tubby. I diet, I exercise, I even work standing up. I can run a mile in under ten minutes. But here I am, staring at my silhouette and thinking if I ever played Christian Bale in a made for TV biopic, I'd be playing him the year he was playing Dick Cheney.

Good movie . . . not a good look.

I was thinking about this as I noticed that today (November 14th) is the last day of trading in our fantasy football leagues.

Our teams are mostly set at this point. This is who we are. This is what we ate.

There's three places you can be right about now. You could be like Jessie (MakeAmericaGronkAgain) who looks at her teams and says "Meow, baby . . . meeeeooooow."

or,

secondly,

You could be like my brother who looks at his team and thinks "All I gotta do is get into Jessie's head and convince her that she doesn't need a defense this week."

or,

thirdly,

You could be like me and think, Jesus, I gotta do some sit ups.

Now in the Cosmic Charlie League pretty much anything can happen.

You can't really root for anyone to have any success. My ability to reach the playoffs at this point is solely based on my father losing.

Solely.

Now there are two things you can do when you're rotund/10th place.

You can look at your belly and then look at the calendar, with its Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and three birthday parties and two to three kegs of beer and think . . . maybe January (or in the case of Fantasy Football . . . maybe next year.)

Or you can do what I'm planning on doing now (or as of Monday). Which is to go through every possible outcome/trigger and se where I can make a difference on the margins. Maybe I don't have to eat the entire bag of Doritos, maybe I can play the matchups with my defensive players. Maybe I shouldn't be holding on to Perine (because Gase isn't getting fired this year) maybe I should be doing Yoga every day.

And maybe I'll have the success I've never had before.

Maybe I'll wake up Christmas morning and my team will have won, and my jeans will fit, and I'll treat myself and the wife to a weekend at the Four Seasons.

Either way, I think BYE week is over and it's time to pull some weeds, burn some calories, and put a few "W'S" where they belong.

WHAT TO WATCH

Last time it was all about the underdogs. The unrequited loves. Rooting for the impossible outcomes.

Sorry about all that.

Though The Giants did beat the Washington Football team for the second time in a row.

Yay.

The Jets played a football game.

No Frank Gore did not look . . . spry.

But before anyone starts talking about my Niners . . . let's move on shall we?

Since I've decided that my belly is no longer on BYE week. You know who needs a win?

All of our teams (Not you Jessie).

I think we should make a special deal with ourselves that if our teams win . . . we all deserve a little something special.

FANTASYLAND:

The Commish: 3-6 (10th Place)

Karen's Handful: 5-4 (6th Place)

Now certainly I could have a better showing . . . you know . . . if I had a better team. That's the one weird things about this whole season . . . I still like my team . . . I still think they're competitive . . . they're not . . . but I still think that.

Not going to make many moves, but I will say this . . . their may come a point tomorrow morning when I end up with three tight ends on one team and two kickers on the other.

I just can't give up Younghoe Koo.

He means too much to my lifestyle.

And he, like my belly, are on BYE,

CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS LAST BLOG:

Kickers will win some games. (Y.Koo shore done)

Lavonte David has a great game. (Eh)

Allen Robinson comes off concussion protocol and nails it. (Sure)

Onion Dip is a hit. (Actually it got mostly overlooked for the guacamole, which is the Y. Koo of dips.)

Our IPA was delish. (It is now the Y. Koo of legged beers.)

CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS THIS BLOG:

Peter hands my father a loss and I owe him a Miller Light and a package of white tees.

Drew Brees goes off against my niners.

Antonio Brown tweets something nice about Brady's wife and scores 2 TD's

Joann beats Patrick and everyone suspects that I'm helping her with her team, which, Jesus people, do you think she'd be in fifth place if I had any input? Have you read this blog?

I look in the Mirror on Monday and say to myself . . . "Meow, Baby, . . .. meeeeow . . . "

The 40ft Post: Lillies and Good Byes

So on October 23rd, 2019, there was much ado in the Macrae house concerning what we were going to do for the cat’s first birthday.

It went like this:

The Family not including me: “Coraline’s birthday is this week.”

Me: “K.”

The Family not including me: “What are we going to do?”

Me: <shrugs, narrows eyes, pauses, returns to whatever else I was doing.>

The Family not including me: “You’re so mean.”

Me: <shrugs, narrows eyes, pauses, returns back to whatever I was doing.>

This scene happens more than once. In fact . . . It’s quite a familiar scene, even in those moments when there’s not a cat birthday to celebrate.

It occurs before most weekends too.

It happens a lot around those holidays I don’t give much thought to. Halloween in particular cause that’s a dress up holiday and I don’t dress up.

Boo me.

Anyway, so for a joke, on October 21st, 2019, I went and made a cake for the cat’s birthday.

Not to sound coarse, I love my cat. She’d be the second thing I’d think to rescue if the house was on fire. (I’ll leave you to decide if my wife or my children would come first).

I love a reason to have cake and drink whiskey.

It turns out however, there was something unsettling about making a cake for a cat.

Which made the joke, much much, much funnier.

It was a double layered chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting.

Someone pointed out that I’d never actually made a cake for my wife or my children.

Which, again, made the joke much much, much funnier.

Anyway.

Joann took a picture of the cake and it went viral.

This year, to keep the joke running, I made another cake. Red velvet with cream cheese frosting. It was good. Life is good.

Joann gotta several pictures of me holding up the cat in front of the cake. Those too went viral. We’re living in the good times.

Two days earlier, October 21st 2020 had been a big day for me. I sold my second novel to a mom and pop publisher up in Eugene, Oregon, and signed a three book narration deal through my first Guild contract. I’m sure that means nothing to you, but in football speak, it’s like being drafted by the New York Jets. Not a major change from college ball, and you’re gonna get hit in the face a lot, but your salary just quintupled.

Gonna buy a lot of cake in 2021.

Anyway, on October 23rd, 2020 I was making cake and in the mood to really celebrate. It was Friday afternoon and I didn’t have a lot to do.

I probably should have sat my ass down and written last week’s post, but I’d decided early in the week to take a Bye.

I was a little overwhelmed.

Forgive me.

Anyway, I took the afternoon off and went to Trader Joe’s to get some wine and a nice bouquet of flowers for the wife for being such a tremendous support to me all these years, and plenty more in the future.

I saw lillies and couldn’t resist.

The football equivalent of Lillies would be like Jimmy Garapolo . . . They’re pretty, they smell nice, your wife seems to like them, and they’re only gonna last two quarters against Miami’s defense.

Now, again, it was October 23rd, 2020, there was a cake baking in the oven and I was returning home with a bag full of wine and flowers . . . And get this . . . My wife thought the flowers were for the cat.

Like I was really capable of  pushing the joke that far.

Kudos to her . . . I am . . . But still.

The cat can’t have flowers. She eats them. Or pushes the vases off the counters and onto the floors. Cats can’t have flowers, which means, neither can we. For the most part.

However, there is one place we can have flowers where the cat seems uninterested in destroying them, and that’s our master bathroom.

However, it also turns out, my wife is slightly allergic to the potent fragrance of the beautiful lillies the way The New York Giants are allergic to offense. (I mean they can breathe and all, but it’s a struggle.)

She’s so stuffed up that she almost wouldn’t be able to play quarterback for the Cowboys. Almost.

The gal can take some serious helmet to helmet and still stay on her feet.

That last sentence is the dirtiest thing I’ve ever written.

There’s also a Red Rocket joke I considered, but again, this is a family show.

But she loves her lillies, and refuses to let me put them outside. So the sneezes and the coughs and ear-aches continue.

This might be her BYE week as last week was mine.

But as we swing on over to the fantasy football side of things, BYE weeks aren’t the nice quiet, streaming Netflix in between naps kinda situation.

No, BYE weeks seem to come out of nowhere and wreak havoc on the unaware and those, much like me, that play week to week because of injuries and bad decisions.

I’m playing a rookie running back on the Jets . . . And I’m glad to have him.

I’m playing a rookie running back on the Eagles . . . His name is Boston . . . I have a feeling he’s not going to end the game like last week with a surprise 18 yard touch down. 

Well . . . It’s ‘More Than a feeling.”

That was a Boston joke.

The Band . . . Not the city.

I’ve got nothing against the city. Though my wife did ask the room last week if we can start rooting for the Patriots now that Tom Brady was no longer their quarterback.

The room answered "no."

Now we get to hate the Tampa Bay Buccaneers too.

Funny circle . . . The fictional character I’ll be voicing in this next set of novels was a star line-backer for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers five or so years ago.

Which would make me Lavonte David.

Imagine me . . . Lavonte David . . . ‘cept you know . . . Short, white, and now a winery owner in the northern part of Georgia in the foothills of the Blue Mountain Range, who left football after a devastating head injury, and is just not ready to fall in love with a food blogger from South Carolina who hates his guts because he was rude to her once.

I get to spend the next 72 hours in the studio speaking in a southern drawl.

Which I guess is a lot like being in the concussion protocol. 

Beats last week, when I was an Australian Fire Demon with a penchant for onesies.

The Niners could really use that guy at running back.

Anyway, short story long, these last few BYE weeks are gonna be tough.

Not “rooting for the Cowboys” tough, or playing a running back on the Jets tough, or realizing that your wife thinks you bought flowers for the cat tough, but, you know, tough.

WHAT TO WATCH

So last time around, with everyone safe and sound, the thing to watch for was the big shift, the moment when we start to consider if our teams have a good chance, or if they don’t have a good chance.

In twelve team leagues it’s like the top four, the middle four, and the bottom four. 

The top four sits pretty, licking chops, or whatever it is you people lick, and picking up a few lottery tickets getting ready for the playoffs.

The middle four start to sweat, cross their fingers that their guys come back from injury, that their quarterbacks do something special, that their kickers have monster weeks.

The bottom four, well, panic people. Start throwing lawn darts at your neighbors’ kids. Anything to liven up that score.

I, as just about every year, am in the middle four. Just good enough to hope, just bad enough to realize that I can’t quit my day job and write this column for the general public, because no one would take me seriously.

And they’d be right.

This week let us watch for the feel good stories.

Let us watch for the glimmers of hope that become full blown dawns.

This is week eight in the fantasy football schedule, and by the end of week nine we will be in the beginning days of a different world era.

If you think I’m being hyperbolic . . . Don’t pick up a newspaper . . . Just continue to live the life you’ve been living up until now . . . Frankly I’m a little bit jealous . . . If not totally mortified.

So let us NeverNeverLand the hell out of this next week.

Let’s give Adam Gase and the Jets a win. Let’s give the Cowboys a surprise foundational quarterback. Let’s put on our Boston albums and “Don’t Look Back.”

FANTASYLAND:

The Commish 3-4 (8th place)

Karen’s Handful 4-3 (6th place)

Let us just say, that I am not projected to win at all this week.

Like the Algorithm looked at my teams and went “Nahhhhh.”

Though I will say this, since it is silver lining week here in Fantasyland, there is every chance in a crazy universe that Coleman comes back from Injured Reserve and gives me a reasonable stat line, or that Derek Carr really does have the juice that my lost and forgotten Cam Newton just didn’t seem to have.

If you’ll remember I was begging Mr. Steve to trade Cam Newton to me a few weeks back, but unlike George in “Of Mice and Men” he just couldn’t pull the trigger.

I even told him about the bunny rabbits.

Still, no go, my luck.

Cam hasn’t been good. But I did have him in my other league to take over for my Watson, specifically for this week, but I chickened out on the possible miracle that is Belechick when the cards are bad, and dropped Cam for Carr.

Whoever you are that picks up Cam and has a monster week, you’re welcome. That type of luck is not meant for me. I don’t know why.

So it’s lookin bad this week.

Going up against teams that are either at the top of the leader board, or sitting in fifth place with the highest point total in the league.

Either way . . . We’re debuting our signature IPA on Sunday . . . And my bathroom smells like lillies.

Short Scene before Thursday Night Kickoff:

"I'm not sure." she said.

"About what?" I say.

"I can't decide between cutie patootie <Justin Herbert> or my money guy <Lamar Jackson>"

"Well Lamar's going up against Pittsburgh."

"And that's bad?"

"That's bad."

"But he's slated for more points."

"Yes he is."

"What do I do?"

"Honestly . . . your guess is as good as mine."

"Don't you want me to win?"

"No . . . no I don't."

"Don't you want me to kick your brother's ass?"

"Text your sister."

CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS LAST BLOG

Tubba Thor (my wife) wins. (Sorta, she lost, she won, she’s 7th place to my 8th)

Dad sticks with Ertz and regrets it. (He did, he doesn’t)

Adam gets his win (Awe yeah, he gets two, 6th place with a bullet)

Buccaneers and Packers game is a draw. (Awe no, Brady gets the GOAT, Rodgers has to spend the next 72 hours speaking in a southern drawl even though he’s from Chico, CA., maybe it’s the concussion.)

CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS FOR NEXT BLOG

It’s a Kickers Week: Crosby, Koo, and Nash win me some games

Lavonte David has a great game, but it doesn’t help Will at all.

Allen Robinson gets out of concussion protocol and begins speaking with an Australian accent.

I bring home onion dip and the wife thinks it’s for the cat.

Our new IPA is delicious, and we polish off the keg before checking the news.

Well that’ll wrap it up. Good luck everyone. Eat some cake.

The 40ft Post: Bell(ie) and the Jets

 Tuesday Night . . . 

5:36pm

Wife enters the room.

"She's beating me by half a point!" she says as she pulls a plastic 64oz Big Gulp cup from the cupboard and begins filling it with crisp white wine. "How can she be beating me by half a point!?"

I shrug.

Which is the kind of thing an attentive loving husband should never do.

Trust me.

She doesn't break eye contact until the cup is full.

"I hate this game." she says. And stomps off to another room, until I tell her dinner is ready.

When she returns, the Big Gulp is half empty and she looks at me, and then looks at the dinner table and then looks at the television and then points at the spot she usually sits at during dinner, but also happens to be the only spot one can see the TV from.

"Would you like to sit here so you can watch the game?"

Which is the kind of thing an attentive loving wife might do.

"Nah, I can spend fifteen minutes paying attention to my wife."

Which is the kind of thing an attentive loving husband might say when he messed up that whole shrug business from the earlier paragraph.

I was tempted to take the seat.

But you see . . . I'd already won both of my Fantasy Football matches, and the rest of the game was just icing off the top.

So attentive loving husband it is.

"It was that @#$%ing tight ass. He got me like two points." she says, steak juice dribbling down her face like we were in a vampire movie.

Logan Thomas . . . she meant Logan Thomas, the Tight end for the Washington Redskins who didn't have much of a game, even with the switch in quarterbacks.

I forced myself not to shrug. Instead, I reach out and touch her dainty wrist.

"I know, babe." I say. "I know."

"@#$%ing Tight Ass." she says.

"I know, babe." I say. "I know."

"He's getting dropped." she says.

"That's it . . . " I say. "Let it all out."

"I hate this game."

"You want a hug?" I ask.

"No . . . I want a @#$%ing Tight Ass."

"We can worry about that in the morning." I say.

My wife would eventually lose by a little over five points which is certainly within the margin that one might have obtained with a competent tight end, which makes the defeat all that more unreasonable. But the fact of the matter is this . . . we make choices . . . we live with those choices.

When Leveon Bell decided to sit out the 2018 season in hopes for more money . . . that was a choice.

When the Jets decided he was worth that money and paid him . . . that was a choice.

When the Jets hired Adam Gase to run a football team . . . that was a choice.

None of these were particularly good choices, considering the outcome, and hiring Adam Gase was never a good choice, because he's not good at what he does, but all ended up rather well.

Bell got paid $27 million for, I think, running about 67 yards over a season and a half, and now gets to have a real shot at attending a Super Bowl in uniform. And of course Frank Gore (who had his super Bowl Moment in 2014) gets another shot at being the Number One Running Back in an offense that is going to be behind a lot of points for a really long time.

Adam Gase still has a paycheck.

So yeah, everybody is happy.

Unless you're Karen . . . who has both Leveon Bell, and Clyde Edwards Helaire, and is going to have to make really hard choices every single week til the playoffs.

She goes against my wife tomorrow, and there's an incredibly funny tight ass joke I would like to make here . . . but this is a family show.

(It had bouncing quarters, a Captain America reference, and a Xerox machine, in case you were wondering)

Anyway . . . 

WHAT TO WATCH

Last week was all about hoping everyone was keeping themselves safe. Everyone did . . . thank you very much. But I happened to have thrown out my back trying to prune back a tree that has been growing into my roof for a couple of weeks.

So that was no fun.

I'm better now.

Not "good"

Just better.

This week starts off just right. Everyone is happy, healthy, except for Moe Allie Cox, which gives my wife's tight ass a fighting chance.

If you're worried I'm going to be running with that joke all season . . . don't be.

Of course I will.

Because they just keep getting funnier.

The real fun this week is going to be seeing that final shift in whose team has it, and whose team doesn't.

Like if you look at Adam's Team "Q" you'll see that he's only beaten one other team (that'd be mine) but his total point score is in the top five. Will his team make the move . . . who knows?

Will Dad retain the topspot in our Cosmic Charlie division with Dalvin Cook and Austin Ekeler out, and Matt Ryan as his quarterback.

These are things that would make a 19th century Gold Coast elite clasp her pearls and say "Oh Deary Me."

That's right 19th century Gold Coast elite . . . oh deary me.

INJURIES AND BAD DECISIONS

I honestly don't know why I even keep writing this section.

I haven't the time and it's all out of date before I even hit the 'publish' button.

FANTASYLAND

The Commish 2-3 (7th place)

Karen's Handful 2-3 (9th place)

Made a lot of moves this week. My leading running backs on The Commish are Antonio Gibson and Phillip Lindsay.

But still . . . I'm going up against Patrick . . . who is an absolutely delightful person . . . and knows things about the autopsy of Elvis Presley that he'd be willing to share for a glass of chardonnay . . . but he doesn't scare me.

okay, maybe a little.

And in the other corner I'm up against the beautifully named TUCK U, who has, so far, out-scored me 537 to 476, but his Russel Wilson is on BYE and I like my odds with my Andy Dalton who has nothing left to lose against his Phillip Rivers who has nothing left to win.

Gonna be a fun few days.

CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS LAST WEEK:

Joann goes 3-2 (sadly no . . .but we already discussed this)

Ekeler injury not bad (sadly no, but we already discussed this)

Rick Astley becomes the Texans Coach (sadly no.)

The Washington Football team signs Colin Kaepernick (sadly no.)

We're all safe this week, even Gold (boisterously yes)

CRAZY STUPID PREDICITONS THIS WEEK:

Tubba Thor (wife and sister) picks the right WR wins; and Karen slashes her tires.

Dad sticks with Ertz and we all send him postcards

Adam gets a "W", but it's a bumper sticker from the George Bush campaign of 2000

(How @#$%ing long ago was that?)

The Buccaneers and Packers game end in a draw and now no one can be the G.O.A.T. *

GOOD NIGHT . . . AND GOOD LUCK.

*and if you didn't get the G.O.A.T.  reference (Mr. Gold) The two quarterbacks facing each other in that game are Tom Brady and Aaron Rodgers, both future Hall of Famers, one married a supermodel, the other dates race car drivers, and G.O.A.T. is an acronym for Greatest of All Time, which is a thing.

I'm betting on the guy that did that commercial.

The 40ft Post: Never Gonna Give You Up

So I got accidentally Rick-Rolled by my fifteen year old son.

I say "accidentally" because I totally doubt that he was aware of what he'd done.

And if you're not sure what getting "Rick-Rolled" means . . . it's either because you're old, or totally out of the loop, or you didn't have access to MTV in the early 80's, or you don't have access to the internet now.

Unfortunately, that pretty much sums up  90% of you, so I shall explain . . . 

For starters it's an internet thing.

More like an internet prank.

See, you might be sent a link for something you were interested in, like, lets say, The Golden Girls having a pillow fight (Frank, you really gotta learn to clear your browser history), but instead of Betty White taking one to the face, you click the link and up comes the 1987 video of Rick Astley performing a song called "Never Gonna Give You Up."

The song is famous for several reasons. One, it's catchy. It's relatively inoffensive (unlike the repeal of the Fairness Act which happened a few days later and is directly responsible for the fate of our nation as it stands today, but I'll explain that in another paragraph) . . . anyway . . . what makes the song so pop culture special even before the internet is that the sound coming out of Rick Astley's voice box is frighteningly out of sync with what the man looks like.

It's as if a bassy, boomy, middle aged, soul singer died from consumption and was resurrected as a skinny, barely out of his teens, Englishman, with red hair and exactly one side step away from disappearing behind the microphone stand.

If you'd heard the song on the radio, like so many of us had, and then you watched the video, which so many of us had, you would've thought you were being pranked.

There's no way that that is his voice.

But it was . . . and he could prove it by playing live.

And that's probably were it should have been left for dead.

But then exactly twenty years later (The same year Ivanka Trump made her debut on The Apprentice) somebody dredged up the song and made it famous again by slipping the YouTube video link into just about everything you could possibly click on.

Like most things on the internet, it became a thing.

And every so often, it rears its catchy little head.

So . . . I was in the shower . . . which is just about how all my stories begin . . . and I noticed that I was humming "Never Gonna Give You Up."

Normally I'm humming something punk and cool like Bad Religion or The Beatles Sgt. Pepper, or more frequently than not, Def Leopard's Hysteria (which was also released in 1987, because that's how circles work).

It's such a good album.

Anyway, I couldn't figure out how "Never Gonna Give You Up." got stuck in my head while I was applying soap to my arm pits.

My first thought, dripping naked, was of Steve Burge . . . who is still . . . to this day . . . unsure if he wants to trade me Cam Newton for his choice of just about any of my Wide Receivers.

Even after Cam got the covid.

And he's not even in the line-up. Cam's just sitting on Burge's bench doing about as much as Rue McClanahan in a pillow fight (She incidentally won the Emmy for Golden Girls in . . . you guessed it . . . 1987)

That's how that song got stuck in my head . . . I thought . . . cause Steve is never gonna give him up.

And once you put those words together, it's impossible . . . impossible not to get that song stuck in your head. Even you, right now, reading this blog, have "Never Gonna Give You Up" in your head.

Unless you're Karen, who just has the theme music from John Carpenter's "Halloween" on a never-ending loop.

Unfortunately, John Carpenter's "They Live" came out in 1988 and I came here to chew bubble gum and talk about 1987 . . . and I'm all out of bubble gum.

Anyway, as it turns out, the real reason I had "Never Gonna Give You Up" stuck in my head is because my son has been playing parts of the melody on his clarinet at 8:15 every morning for the last month.

Why? You ask.

Because the song was added to the repertoire of his highschool marching band. And because of 1987's repeal of The Fairness Act, he's playing it with about a hundred kids synced up on the internet, because none of us can go outside.

The wrong air could kill us.

You know what won't kill us?

Trading in fantasy football.

(I mean . . . yeah . . . there's been a bit of drama as of late, but that doesn't mean the institution of trading has been marred forever, and this is the very last time I'm gonna reference that little episode, so you can all breathe easy.)

And yeah . . . I'm never getting Cam Newton . . . cause Steve is a little pissed that he now has Rick Astley playing in his head instead of the "Dylan and The Dead" Live album, not to mention the whole shower scene.

Can you guess which summer Bob Dylan and The Grateful Dead recorded that "Dylan and the Dead?"

1987 Mr. Gold. Keep up.

Anyway, the reason we as fantasy players are a little gun-shy about making trades is that the stakes are much higher than just pulling a rabbit off the waver wire. You got to give up a good player to get a good player. Plus, there's the possibility that you just gave the advantage to a player who you desperately want to see lose.

For instance, last year, I traded Mike Evans to Mr. Gold for Dak Prescot.

It was a great trade until two weeks later when Mike Evans went down. (Gold still won the league, because Lamar Jackson, but still, could've gone the other way.)

But if you're playing it safe all the time, then you're not having any fun. You're biting your nails and hoping your tight end has still got some gas left.

It's Jared Cook.

Who was born in 1987.

If you were wondering.

But . . . let say trading was as fun as I make it out to be. Which it is. Let's say, rather than crossing your fingers that Jared Cook (who couldn't have been conceived while Never Gonna Give You Up was playing on the radio because it was too late in the year) crossing your fingers that he has another good game left in him, lets say you go find some team who has two much better tight ends. Or someone who just lost their first round draft pick and needs an RB more than they need a solid TE.

Find that person and, you know, flatter them a bit. Tell them they're a good fantasy football player, yes they are, yes they are, and that you might be willing to give up Jerrick Mckinnon for Zach Ertz.

Or whatever.

It's tough, I know. I like my players more than I like large swaths my family.

My players are just much much much less disappointing.

And then there's the question of fairness.

To illustrate . . . let me take you back in time . . . to . . . oh . . . let us say . . . 1987.

Deep in the last rotting days of the Reagan Administration, while the Gipper was having trouble remembering if he'd sold weapons to Iran so he could pay for terrorists in Nicaragua (yes, was the answer), and probably having a hard time remembering the name of his second wife (Nancy), the government quietly repealed the Fairness Act.

In 1949 with radio and the newly minted television getting into everyone's homes, The Fairness Act was a pretty simple piece of legislation. It simply required Broadcasters to balance their political punditry. If they had a guy on to say that trickle down economics was awesome, then they also had to put on a guy who said trickle down economics was probably bad.

Seems fair and balanced.

Like a good trade.

Or any trade. Even a lopsided trade. You could give the trickle down economics guy a few extra minutes to make his case. Because no matter what, he's gonna sound stupid. And all the other guy has to do is say "You're Stupid." and that'd be that.

Anyhoo.

The Fairness Act was repealed to very little fanfare and nobody mentioned it. Nobody really cared. Because there wasn't money to be made by handing the microphone to the kind of people that think trickle down economics was a good idea. Even George H.W. Bush was backing the hell away from it, kind of shaking his head, and hoping that Ronnie's dementia wasn't contagious.

You know, like the corona virus.

But someone thought "Well . . . maybe if we find a drug addict on food stamps . . . I mean, someone with no moral compass . . . who hates woman and gay people . . . and won't drop an "N" bomb, but will act as quietly racist as a confederate flag . . .  and put him in a room by himself . . . and let him pontificate about the moral dangers of a big government . . . how they'll take away your rights . . . how politicians fail you . . . how the only truth comes from Jesus . . . and then what if we broadcasted it . . . you know . . . now that we can?"

If you think I'm talking about Rush Limbaugh, you may be on to something.

With the Fairness Act gone the opportunity for those who read 1984 and thought it a lovely training manual opened the floodgates. From there we get the "Contract with America," Fox News, Dick Cheney (again), Breitbart, Megan Kelly, too many conspiracies to list, and finally the complete take over of people who think fairness only applies when they're winning.

And because of that, I have to worry if the hug I gave my dad on Sunday is going to kill him.

Now . . . how does this relate to fantasy football trading?

You ask.

Because trading is fair game. You get something, I get something. Maybe you didn't get all that you wanted. Maybe, there is in fact, a short end of the stick. Maybe, on paper, the trade is ugly, but hey, maybe you need a one week filler at the tight end position and you've got two top ten running backs and you're willing to part with one so that you don't have to give up on the week.

Sometimes you gotta send Hopkins to Arizona because he makes you feel bad.

Dose that make you a bad coach? Yes, yes it does.

Are you just trying to keep your head above water? Yes, yes you are.

You can alway reject the trade, but when you reject the idea of trading, when you refuse to think about the other side, when you begin to see all the other teams as your enemy, then it takes all the fun out of the rest of the season. 

We're competitors . . . but we're also friends. There's only one or two weeks in the season when my winning requires your losing.

You get tax breaks for really really rich people. I get a climate change package so that really really rich people can enjoy their yachts for a few more years.

Who's the winner when we trade?

All of us.

WHAT TO WATCH:

So last week was "Baited Breath Week" All we needed was to watch some football, drink some beer, have a few good laughs, and onion dip.

Check, check, check, check, and Mmmmmmmm.

This week . . . This week is the quarter turning point of the fantasy football year. Now that we know our teams a little better, know each other a little better, what are we going to do to win?

The answer?

Come on Steve, send me that trade.

FANTASYLAND:

The Commish: 1-3 (10th Place)

Karen's Handful: 1-3 (9th Place)

So same old same old. Back to the darkness with my old friend . . . darkness. Now there is a silver lining. There is a very good chance I don't lose every single game from here on out. But between injuries and bad decisions I'm starting to think my outlooks this year are a little grim.

Doesn't matter.

Had Football.

CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS LAST WEEK:

No more Positive Covid tests: 

    I was so wrong The President of the United States got it. Yeah . . . blame me for that one.

I win one, I lose one:

    Half right.

Drew Brees does me proud:

    Please Steve, just . . . please.

Josh Gordon gets reinstated:

    No . . . but CBS Fantasy Site says it's pretty unlikely. So at least there's hope. And Joshie isn't completely forgotten.

Frank Gore becomes the #7 Fantasy Running Back this week:

    He was #42. Yeah. Just Yeah.

CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS FOR WEEK 5:

Joann's Team goes 3-2. And she screen shots the win and texts it to me.

Austin Ekeler's injury isn't that bad

Risk Astley becomes the new Texans Coach

The Washington Football Team Signs Colin Kaepernick (who, incidentally, was born in 1987)

We're all safe this week. Even you Mr. Gold. Even you.

All the love. Never gonna give you up.

The 40 ft Post: First Case Scenario

(Note: 75% of this blog was written Wednesday Night and as we hopefully all know now, The Titan's Steeler's Game has been postponed indefinitely. Good Night and Good Luck.)

So I got a text from my father just shortly after I sat down this morning with my first cup of coffee hoping to read some nice news.

"Well Commish, whatcha gonna do now?"?"

This is a reference to my new role as commissioner in the Canton Bulldogs League, and my father hinting that I'm an incompetent baboon.

"Whatcha mean?" I text back. (Notice how I didn't take the baboon bait, and retorted with a copy of the word 'watcha' even though it's not a real word.)

Take that dad.

"The NFL is postponing the Titans game." he typed back with his thumbs.

Now here's the funny bit. Exactly thirty seconds before my father's text, I was sipping my coffee and reading the NFL news. There was a note about a few members of the Tennessee Titans having tested positive for the corona virus, and the sentence I had just read prior to my father's thumb assault was "The game with the Steelers will not be postponed."

However, the article I had been reading was an hour old.

New stuff could have happened.

Regardless of my father's thumb assault.

In fact . . . new stuff had happened.

The Titans Steelers Game is up in the air.

Which creates quite the conundrum.

Because there are Fantasy Football implications . . . and I'd already outlined some incredibly inappropriate jokes for this week that have nothing to do with my father's quick thinking thumbs nor the Great State of Tennessee.

Mostly I was going to do jokes about this Thursday's match-up between the Jets and the Denver Broncos.

Like: If Sam Darnold butt-fumbles in the Denver Stadium, does that mean he technically joins "The Mile High Club"?

That joke is gold.

But to understand it, you'd need to know three things:

One: There was a famous Jets fumble where their quarterback (Mark Sanchez) ran into the butt of his own teammate and fell down.

Two: Denver has a high elevation and is referred to as 'The Mile High City'

Three: 'The Mile High Club' is entirely unrelated to football.

(You have the internet, look it up. DO NOT however look up Dirty Sanchez.)

Honestly, that's one of those jokes that gets funnier every time I try to explain it.

But how can I make Jets/Broncos jokes when I'm now officially a day late . . . and there are all these great Tennessee jokes to mine?

(I can see Frankie right now breathing a sigh of relief. No thumb assaults for his poor Jets this week)

Not even a Butt-fumble reference.

Like, did you know that in Greek Mythology, the Titans were the twelve children of Gaia and Uranus?

I mean, that is onomatopoetic gold.

Thumbs be damned.

Did you know that Tennessee is the home of Elvis, Jack Daniels, and my grandmother?

Her name was Helen.

Did you know the Helen Ready just died?

That last sentence was a complete digression . . . hear me roar.

Anyway, is it any surprise that the first team that contracted the Corona Virus was from a . . . well . . . how should we say it? . . . Was from a state that refers to The Civil War as The War of Northern Aggression?

Home of Dollywood and the uranium enrichment facilities for the Manhattan Project.

It's an entire state below the Mason Dixon line.

It's a state where their junior Senator committed a felony during the impeachment hearings, but only got a tsk tsk from Twitter instead of jail time.

Now I'm not saying the coastal teams are any better. Kyle Shannahan (49ers Coach) got dinged so hard for not wearing his mask in week one that he might have to spend less than $70,000 this year on his hair this tax season.

What I'm really trying to say is that we're all pretty surprised that the first outbreak didn't come out of Florida.

In fact, here's a wild note for the history books . . . the first NFL team with a positive result was the Houston Texans, but it was a false positive, not quite the true positive. And that's only cool if you know that the Tennessee Titans used to be the Houston Oilers.

It's like there's just something wrong with their DNA.

Did I mention my grandmother was from Tennessee?

Anyway, I could spend a really really long time thumb assaulting the State of Tennessee because of their history and politics and Taylor Swift, but the real important bit is what happens now with our fantasy football teams.

What do we do?

I mean, if none of your players are on the Titans or Steelers, then your* fine.

*you're.

But let's say you have . . . oh . . . I don't know . . . Ju Ju Smith Shuster, or Eric Ebron, or the Steeler's Kicker (whose name I'm forgetting)** like my wife does.

She didn't forget his name, that's her team.

Or what do you do with Derrick Henry or Jonnu Smith, like I does?

Steve and I talked about this possibility a little before the start of the season, but it was after four or five really good beers and I think we just shrugged our shoulders and went "Whatever, no one has players on any of the Florida Teams"

Anyway, the nice thing for me to do would be to say, "Don't Worry . . . we'll work something out . . . I won't let your team fail if, for some reason, you stacked Big Ben, James Conner, Derrick Henry, Ju Ju, AJ Brown, Jonnu, ** Chris Boswell, Pittsburg's Defense."

Nah.

That would be the nice thing for me to say.

But I'm not gonna. And Whatcha gonna do about it?

(Notice how I tied in the earlier text string between me and my fathers thumbs. That's the genius part of my DNA that didn't come from Tennessee.)

Anyway.

I hope your team isn't built with that First Case Scenario.

Cause if it is . . . you should worry.

I don't think any of you did, but it's possible . . . and it's showbiz baby.

We all gotta take the gamble.

Like the gamble the junior Senator from the great State of Tennessee took when she left the Senate Chambers during an impeachment hearing so that she wouldn't miss a T.V. interview on Fox News and sort of committed a crime that required jail time.

She could be getting thumb assaulted right now if it weren't for the fact that the leader of the Senate cares about the people he is responsible for, and, would frankly do anything to ensure their success.

That's not me dropping political bombs in the middle of a Fantasy Football blog, I'm just saying that Mitch McConnell cares for people in a way . . .  that I, as commissioner . . . do not.

Oh my god . . . you are on your own. You too, wife.

Best of luck . . . honey, sweetie, darling, love of my life.

Better get yo-self a back up tight-end.

(Which is exactly what she's going to do and why I'm not gonna be surprised when she runs away with the pool boy)

We don't have a pool, but there's this guy named Sven who always seems to be hanging around the house.

He smells of Gaia and Uranus.

WHAT TO WATCH:

Obviously, now that we're in the future there is no point worrying over the Titans/Steelers game. That ship has sailed. We just need to send our good thoughts to the kind of places where good thoughts are currency.

Which I believe is Oklahoma City, and The Kingdom of Heaven.

Hell is still on the gold standard and you can't buy anything in West Virginia without a pocketful of coal dust.

It's like fairy dust, but instead of the ability to fly, you get black lung disease.

Last week, the most important thing to watch was whether or not I was going to finally get that "W"

Which I did, like twice. Thank you for all your good thoughts.

This week however is what I'd like to call "Baited Breath Week" for the NFL and all of us. Will any more teams see infections happen? The Titans played the Vikings last week, the Vikings are so far clear, but who knows. Will Adam Gase get fired after tonight's game? 

How far will all this go before we're safe?

Who knows.

Dad's house may be on fire right now too.

Just in case you were worried that there wasn't enough to worry about.

So here's what we really need to watch this week:

We need to watch some football. Preferably with some friends and some beer and some novelty foods that you're only allowed to eat on Sunday. Like onion dip and three bean burritos. And while you're doing that just try to remember that this is life, not the rest of the stuff. Just this. Just onion dip.

FANTASYLAND:

The Commish 1-2 (7th Place)

Karen's Handful 1-2 (8th Place)

Now this is much more like it. Hanging out there on the ragged edge. Fighting for every point. Where I can look over at Frankie on game day and feel sorry for him in one league, and grossly jealous in another.

Is that weird? Am I making this weird?

I am running out of time this morning, so I'll make these last bits short.

Game On Brothers and Sisters. 

CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS LAST WEEK:

1. I win (yes . . . yes I did)

2. Josh Gordon is reinstated (no . . . no he wasn't)

3. The Doctor who punctured Tyrod Taylor's lung is now head of the CDC (There is no CDC)

4. Washington Football Team becomes the DC Purple Cabbage (if you don't get that reference read last week's blog)

5. I win (yes . . yes I did that too.)

CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS THIS WEEK:

1. No one else tests positive and the Titans/Steelers game is rescheduled.

2. I win one, I lose one. (Like the saying goes)

3. Drew Brees gets Michael Thomas back and proves that he was worth a fifth round pick

4. Josh Gordon gets reinstated.

5. Frank Gore is the number seven Running Back on the Week.

Sorry that I gotta run so soon. Break's over Frank.

No Vegetables on Taco Night

Back in the early aughts (2001-2009 for you young whippersnappers), I did something that will live in family infamy, hopefully, many years after I have gone.

I cut up carrots . . . and put them on a plate in the middle of the table . . . then served tacos.

My step son said something like "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!?"

He's a millennial and therefore, everything he says in in ALL-CAPS. And he probably didn't use the word "HELL", it was probably something more like "Ever loving fiddlesticks", but for continuity's sake, lets just say he was pissed and didn't have the words to articulate his emotional state.

"It's carrots." I replied. I may or may not have cocked my head.

The blood drained from his face. I could see all the joy in his soul and gently waft into the air, as his shoulders slumped and his eyes grew dark.

"What?" I asked, cocking my head again and not speaking in all-caps.

The life returned to him for a brief moment. It was as if he was William Wallace about to declare that the British may take our lands but they will never take our freedom. I can't remember if he stood up suddenly and pushed his chair away from the table, but I wouldn't be surprised if that was what actually happened.

Anyway . . . he stood up and declared once and for all:

"THERE ARE NO VEGETABLES ON TACO NIGHT!"

It was the carrot stick that broke the camel's back.

See, at the time, my wife was pregnant, and I was doing terrible, terrible things with food in order to get all the yummy little vitamins and nutrients into her. I would do things like make salad for dinner. I would stuff chicken with other delicious animals.(Protein is important). I even went so far once as to hide shredded spinach in a massive meatloaf. (Folic acid is also important, for anyone questioning my sanity)

I was incorrigible. And poor, poor, poor Taylor, suddenly went from pasta eight nights a week, to a smorgasbord of exotic, and frankly unprofessional, attempts at mixing up the family dinner.

He loved Taco Night.

And I had betrayed him by introducing a plate of carrots.

To be honest, I hadn't even realized we never had had carrots on taco night. I just saw the carrots and thought "Those look yummy . . . maybe a little influx of beta-carotene will help the little fetus to eventually understand why he has to wear a mask during a global pandemic."

Now, for those of your new to The 40ft Post, hang in there, I will bend this narrative to my will, and make it all about Fantasy Football.

For the rest of you . . . god bless.

Fast forward a decade, maybe more, and the whole family unit is back again, and like the good little housewife I am, I take requests.

What does Taylor want for dinner this week?

Taco Salad.

So we've some full circle have we? Not only does he want Taco Night, but a Vegetable based Taco Night.

"Hell, yes." I think quietly. "But there's no way the other child, the one who got all that folic acid as a fetus, will want a Taco Salad. Even the hint of an onion will stop him from eating solid foods for a fortnight."

Get this, if I accidentally cut an onion and then use the same knife to cut his sandwich, and he's in another room, completely unaware of my mistake, he will bring back the sandwich and tell me something is wrong with it, and that he can't eat it, and in fact he's not hungry, and won't be hungry until the next presidential administration.

I don't believe in hitting children. But I do understand it. God do I understand it.

(Trust me, this is still going to get to football, have patience.)

So instead of making him a Taco Salad, I plan on making him a hamburger.

Which, when he finds out he's being excluded from the joy that is the taco salad, he insists that that is exactly what he wants.

"FINE!" I think, in all-caps.

I make him an abbreviated Taco Salad. No onions, no salsa, no avocado, just meat, lettuce, cheese.

He seems happy.

All is fine.

Flash forward.

Two weeks ago, I make taco salads for the wife and I. She's no longer pregnant, but I still like to get all the good veggies and vitamins I can into our aging systems. The step-son is off on a new adventure in Los Angeles, and I just assume the other one would prefer a hamburger.

"Can I have a taco salad with you guys?"

He's not a millennial. He's Generation Z and therefore can speak and think in somewhat normal punctuation.

"I was planning on making you a hamburger." I say, also not in all caps, because I'm not a millennial either.

"Oh . . . okay." he said, so dejected that it broke what was ever left of my heart. Which was not much, but still.

I made him a taco salad the next night . . . just for him . . . and was told . . . I shit you not . . . 

"I don't like it with carrots."

That's how he said it.

But what I heard was "I DON'T LIKE IT WITH CARROTS."

Which is weird, but okay, whatever.

Flash forward.

Tonight . . . September 22nd, 2020.

I think I'm gonna make taco salads for dinner.

That sounds refreshing. I make sure not to put in any carrots, or avocado, or celery, or onions, or any of the things that make food fun.

I did however . . . and honestly, may god forgive me . . . I put a few decorative slivers of purple cabbage on top of the lettuce, just to give it, you know, a little colorful flair.

Clearly unprofessional.

He sits down to eat, all by himself, because we all have different schedules, because we're modern and not some stuffy nuclear unit, and then my wife finds my son standing silently in the cupboard sifting though things.

"What are you looking for?" she asks. He guiltily closes the door and shows her a packet of Top-Ramen, which is always . . . always, the meal of last resort.

"I can't eat purple cabbage." he says quietly, again, not in all-caps, but I still feel my bones clench.

Weird, you say, but okay, whatever.

You see, there are very few things I don't know about what my son likes to eat and what he doesn't.

I make him three meals a day, and have done so, for practically the entire fifteen years of his life.

(And if you're asking yourself, why, in gods name, can't a fifteen year old boy eat a few slivers of purple cabbage, then I tip my hat to you. Don't have children.)

But never once had it come up that a garnish of purple cabbage would render a meal inedible.

So I've now learned something.

I'm not mad at him, mind you. He is incredibly sensitive to tastes, smells, textures. That's not in anyway his fault. And when it comes to challenging fear, you'll never find a soul more courageous, a human being more kind, and he even got my sense of humor, so he's at least gonna be able to irritate the right people.

But how does this relate to Fantasy Football?

Chill.

I'll get us there.

See, I approach every meal I've ever made, the same way I approach my team.

I study. I learn. I contemplate. I cock my head and I'm careful not to speak in all-caps. I try to think ahead and I try not to let the failures of the previous week/meal shudder my enthusiasm for the endless possibilities that lay ahead.

I draft/cook with confidence, but also with the 100% guarantee that so much of the love that I put into each plate/line-up is going to be treated with a certain level of distain and failure.

I plan for failure.

Which is why I fail.

Nearly almost all the time.

But I'm not going to change the way I play, because it's the way I play.

A plate of carrots, Phillip Lindsay as my flex. A garnish of purple cabbage, Drew Brees as my only drafted quarter back.

There is simply no way for me to realize that Dak Prescott is going to do what he did Week Two to both of my teams.

There's no way for me to know that purple cabbage is an unacceptable garnish.

Cause life is weird. And it's okay. Whatever.

I'm not going to win every week, or even most weeks, but I love to get up Tuesday Morning/Every Meal time, and dream about what is possible.

Cause maybe, and it does happen sometimes, Deshaun Watson continues to be a superstar without DeAndre Hopkins, and Allen Robinson catches all nine of his targets, and sometimes a fifteen year old boy eats his taco salad and is glad for the little purple cabbage garnish.

Some weeks, however, you gotta be glad that there's Top-Ramen in the cupboard, and that A.J. Green got 13 passes even though he only caught three of them.

How boring would life be if we were too scared to add a little garnish to our taco salads?

How boring would this game be if we didn't play it?

THE BIG NEWS

I'm torn here, because when I started this blog Tuesday night, the biggest news was how the NFL solicited over a million dollars in fines to coaches who didn't wear their masks.

Even John Gruden, WHO HAD THE FUCKING DISEASE.

And you're saying . . . dude . . . what's with the all caps?

. . . and the swearing . . . seriously?

Okay, I've poured myself another glass of wine, and I'll tell you.

There is an armed security guard at my Trader Joes.

Let that sentence just sit with you a minute.

The reason there is an armed security guard at my local Trader Joes is because there is a small, very vocal, incredibly entitled, possibly sociopathic swath of the American populous, that think basic human decency is a liberal hoax, and they're kinda okay bulldozing their way into situations that could turn violent.

I watched a 6'5" dude get strong armed out of an Ace Hardware this afternoon because he was pretty sure the eighteen year old cashier wasn't going to put up a fuss. She didn't of course. She just radioed into the back office that a man had entered the store, and refused to put a mask on.

I don't remember how big the two dudes were that walked him out were, but he was Jennifer Grey to their Patrick Swayzees, and he was NOT having the time of his life.

I make this point because football is a violent sport, writhing with toxic masculinity. The very least the NFL could do would be to show just enough common sense to make a killing off of branded merchandise.

But now there are a bunch of Chevy drivers who think they can barnstorm a Whole Foods because Sean Payton doesn't think science is real.

SO THAT'S THE DARK BIT.

LET'S GO DARKER!

THIS BIGGER AND MUCH FUNNIER NEWS:

What's that? You might ask.

Is that Mia Wallace in Pulp Fiction getting an adrenaline injection before she overdoses on heroin?

OR . . .

Is it Tyrod Taylor realizing his starting gig for the Los Angeles Chargers has come to an abrupt end?

If you haven't heard, and there's no reason you should have, this weekend there was an abrupt change in the Charger line up just before kick off.

Tyrod Taylor had an unforeseen chest injury and in his stead, rookie Justin Herbert took the first snap.

We all went: "Weird . . . but okay . . . whatever."

But then Herbert almost held the whole game in check. Against the Kansas City Chiefs.

One or two fewer rookie mistakes and the Chargers might have beat the reigning Super Bowl Champions with a quarterback who got the gig five minutes ago.

It was like a gender reveal party where no National Forrests were hurt in the making of.

But . . . then a day later . . . the Chargers come out and insist Tyrod Taylor is still their man. He's still the guy. Chest palpitations and all.

And we all went: "Weird . . . but okay . . . whatever."

But then news broke this morning that Tyrod's "Chest Injury" was actually a pain medication that was delivered with such force, that it collapsed his lung.

Straight up.

Doctor Feel Good got a little too high on his own petard and stabbed a starting quarterback in the lung.

Now of course, in this family with so many Nurses and Pharmacists and Doctors, that's probably an inappropriate joke. It's entirely not funny.

Puncture is one of the more tricky aspects of modern medicine. I've seen the TEDtalk. You should too.

So no, it's not funny, but it's absurdly apropos in a time of unparalleled absurdity, that we all just have to take a moment . . . whenever we can . . . and just look up into the heavens . . . and say . . . 

Weird . . . but okay . . . whatever.

WHAT TO WATCH:

So last week, there were two narratives I thought were really important.

The first was to see if my beast of a wife could make mince meat of my father, who is exactly seventeen years younger than Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Too soon?

Yeah . . . too soon.

The other was to see if Tom Brady was going to come screaming back to life after a dismal first outing as a Buccaneer.

In real life, Tom did. He won the game. In the fantasy world, not so much, he kinda sucked. Kinda need more QB sneaks.

Same thing for the other thing in the inverse.

In fantasy life, my wife got her clocked cleaned. In real life, my father, who is exactly seventeen years older than Kurt Cobain (had he lived), is gonna spend the rest of his life wondering how she's gonna exact her revenge.

Can you imagine living in that kind of fear?

All I'm saying is that he better wear a mask.

Now, for this week, all I care about is getting my first win for the season.

I'm going up against an auto drafter in one league, and in the other league I'm going against my father, who is exactly seventeen years older than Vanilla Ice, and seventeen years younger than Keith Richards.

Jesus Christ that's weird. But Okay. Whatever.

FANTASYLAND:

The Commish: 0-2, 10th Place

Karen's Handful: 0-2, Last Place

Weird, okay, whatever.

Jesus, I'm not good at this game.

STUPID CRAZY PREDICTIONS (LAST WEEK)

1. Allen Robinson gets traded:

No he did not, and not only that, but he bucked the common sense narrative that when a WR bitches for a few days, the next game is a barnstormer, but no, three catches, thirty three yards. Not showing a lot of dangerous leg there Robinson. (That's a quadruple entendre, a Chicago WR plus three different people in the Canton league that can answer to  Robinson, plus the Lost in Space reference, plus The Graduate reference. I mean, sometimes it's just too easy.)

2. Josh Gordon Reinstated:

A boy can dream.

3. Jordan Reed is Tight End #4 in week 2.

I really messed this one up. He was Tight End #6. But in funnier news, Joann now refers to this position as the Tight Ass. So she'll say something like "Do I have a nice Tight Ass?" and I'll say "Yes, baby, yes you do."

4. Phillip Lindsay returns:

No. No he didn't. Weird, but okay, whatever.

5. Joann beats Dad (who is exactly seventeen years older than than Pamela Anderson, but seventeen years younger than Sharon Tate)

Too soon for the Sharon Tate jokes?

Yeah . . . too soon.

STUPID CRAZY PREDICTIONS THIS WEEK:

1. I win a game.

2. Josh Gordon is reinstated.

3. The Doctor who punctured Tyrod Taylor's lung is now the head of the CDC.

4. The Washington Team is now The D.C. Purple Cabbage.

5. I win a game.

That's it for now. Hope you laughed as much as I did. Love one another as much as I love you all. Which I know is weird. But okay. Whatever.

The Girl is Savage

Note: Origianlly written Aug 1st,  and then updated on Sept 15th.

I know exactly what the first text is going to say.

It’ll go something like this:

“GREAT TEAM . . .”

The next text will shortly arrive with this message:

“ . . . if this was 2011.”

Adam sends me this text every year (the date changes from time to time, but the sentiment stays the same), and every year, he’s pretty accurate.

He didn’t this year, but he did mention that Josh Jacobs in the first round was a stretch and the A.J. Green was gonna be a bust.

See . . . I have sort of a problem. I have a tendency to overvalue fantasy football players that are, well, maybe a few seasons past their primes. Especially in the back of drafts when I’m looking at a lot of players I don’t know and suddenly I see Frank Gore just sitting there, totally ignored by the rest of the league.

Which he was, and only picked up by Will this morning as bad news from the Jets about LeVeon Bell's chances of playing next week.

In 2011 Frank gore ran for 1,200 yards and 8 TD’s. Last year it was 599 and 2. He is now Le’Veon Bell’s back up on the Jets. My brother Francesco is a Jets fan, which means every time I scream GO FRANKIE GO, he’s gonna wonder why I’m shouting at him. Cause you know Gore is gonna poach a few down the stretch. I like to call him “Fall Forward for Four Frankie”

This is because I’m a sucker for alliteration, and that’s what Gore does. He hits the defensive line and falls forward for four yards. In pretty much every game he’s gonna give you sixty yards and a 50% chance at a touchdown.

Not in the last few years though. In fact, the last time he broke 1,000 yards, Obama was still the President of the United States and doesn’t that feel like a f@#k ton of years ago?

It was 2016.

I turned 40.

I won a league championship that year.

My team name: “Trump’s Twitter Game”

I thought that was pretty funny in the summer of 2016. I think we all did.

And we were right. It was pretty funny.

So there’s next to no possibility of a Gore resurgence this year, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be looking to pick him up somewhere in the 17th round.

Cause what if Bell goes down?

Bell did go down, Jesus, the things the universe will do to make a joke not funny.

I may have a sickness.

I’m not alone however. Peter also likes to grab the old guys.

I’m gonna let that last sentence just sit there.

Any-hoo, as of this morning, I realized that even multi-billion dollar team owners share the same sickness. Maybe we should all start wearing masks.

So here’s a fun statistic: Imagine a team where the QB throws for 5,200 yards and 39 touch downs. The lead Running Back goes for 1,300 and 17 touchdowns, even the Tight End goes for 1,300 yards and 17 touchdowns.

That’d be one helluva fantasy team.

That’d be the 2020 starting line up of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

If the year was 2011.

Tom Brady, LeSean McCoy, Rob Gronkowski for those of you who are curious.

I tried to find 2011 stats on Mike Evans, but I think he was sick that year. Anyway, it’s kinda creepy looking up highschool stats for someone you don’t actually know personally.

It’s actually creepy looking up highschool stats for anyone really.

But yeah, the Tamp Bay Buccaneers have a GREAT TEAM.

If the year was 2011.

You wanna know what else happened in 2011?

We killed Osama bin Laden.

Discovered water on Mars.

We Occupied Wall Street.

Cocaine sales dropped by 35% as Randy Savage left this world for the Great Slim Jim in the sky.

Heroine sales might have done the same thing, with Amy Winehouse saying no to rehab for the last time, but thankfully Keith Richards was able stabilize the supply and demand curve.

Now, there’s a man who understands a market economy.

2011 was also the same year my brother asked me if I’d like to play fantasy football.

I told him I know nothing about football.

He said it’s easy. Grab a Fantasy Football magazine and draft Running Backs in the first three rounds.

The top three prospects for running back that year?

Ray Rice, Adrian Peterson, and yes, LeSean McCoy.

My team that year, I remember VIVIDLY.

Adrian Peterson

Mark Ingram (his rookie year)

Michael Bush

Mike Wallace

Brandon Marshall

Willis McGahee

And Josh Freeman . . . of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. So it all comes full circle.

I don’t remember the tight end, but I’m pretty sure he was terrible.

Anyhoo, I came in last place that year, and instantly became a junkie. Which is weird. You’d think losing that badly would tell a grown man that, maybe this isn’t the game for him.

But no.

Like a millennial at an EDM concert, I caught the virus.

There have been years over the last decade where I’ve managed five teams at a time, making the play-offs in none of them.

Because (and I’ve said this before) I am terrible at this game.

Like ungodly terrible at it.

Except for that one time where I made a silly joke about someone who turned into one of the most dangerous humans on the planet.

But even if Doctor Fauci told me to stop playing for the safety of everyone around me, my eyes would glaze over and I’d spend serious time trying to figure out how to blame New Zealand.

And now I’m the Commissioner of a league. (Not you Cosmic Charlie, rest easy boys)

And for even better funzees, Joann is starting with her first team this year and she’s already better at the game than I am.

And since I’m not in the middle of an election campaign or trying to make myself into a successful podcaster (long story) . . . It’s time to return to THE 40ft POST.

For those of you who are new to the leagues over the last few years, this is a weekly blog about fantasy football. I start with a funny little monologue (see previous sentences), then highlight some football news, injuries, bad decisions (etc.), relay the previous week on my fantasy football teams, then make some silly predictions about the next week.

This is not in any way required reading, and sometimes my humor can be a bit savage (see Amy Winehouse death joke), and I may get way out of line sometimes when talking about Frank’s sister, but the point is that I love and respect you all, and this is solely for the fun of the game.

If you enjoy, awesome.

If you get slightly offended, awesome.

If smack talk and dry humor isn’t your thing, don’t click the link.

If you’re new to The 40ft Post, there are some running jokes that might be a little complicated to explain, so if you get confused, ask a friend. But to answer a few questions, no, Mr. Gold is not really my arch nemesis . . . Yes, Dad still sends me waiver wire suggestions . . . No, Karen isn’t quite the sociopath I make her out to be, and yes, there is a 96% chance that Uncle Frankie is reading this while sitting on the toilet.

Circulation check Frankie, can you still feel those little piggies?

Good boy.

THE BIG NEWS

Well, well, well. Two things we have learned after the first football weekend since human beings set fire to the rain.

One, Joann is an absolutely Savage Fantasy Football player. She has been taking screen shots of every text she’s gotten about her big win, along with showing me all the notification from Yahoo about how awesome her team is.

She did however seem to apologize for being so excited about kicking my ass in week one. Not that she was sorry for winning, but that she was sorry I  lost.

My response was . . . hrmmmf . . . and “Just do me a solid and kick the snot out of my father next week.

She agreed that that was best.

And the second thing we learned after this first week is that nothing changes. I’m still bad at this game, and Frank Gore will taunt me in my sleep until I roster him.

INJURIES AND BAD DECISIONS:

Well, you all know who has been hurt by now, so there’s nothing new there.

Though, to be honest, I’m really bummed about Lindsay’s Turf Toe.

The Bronco’s paid Melvin Gordon III a ton of money to take on the lead back role, and I felt like the true narrative should have been his not being what they wanted him to be and home boy Lindse would come back to the foreground All American Hero Style.

Instead, Lindse hurts one of his little piggies, and Mr. Gordon looks exactly like what the Broncos opened up their checkbook for.

So I'm on the hunt for a new potential flexible running back especially now that Frank Gore has been gotten. Will beat me to him

Muchas gracias, Mr. Will.

But there haven’t been any fingers blown off in the gender reveal fireworks,

And so far . . . 

. . . knock on all the wood . . . 

. . . there’s no direct sign of pandemic disease.

Maybe, with a little bit of luck and an f-ton of purell, we may have a season to enjoy.

Though how much fun was it listening to canned crowd noise? I think during the Tampa Bay game I actually heard Statler and Waldorf from the Muppet Show heckling Gronkowski, though that might have been LeSean McCoy’s great grand children.

WHAT TO WATCH NEXT WEEK:

Obviously the only narrative I’m interested in is how badly my wife beats up on my septuagenarian father and the playability of Phillip Lindasy’s little piggy.

On narrative street we get to see if Tom Brady is gonna come roaring back to life like he used to do after an embarrassing defeat, or if, like we’ve all been saying since the first Telsa rolled off the assembly line: “Brady’s finished.”

(Don’t bother looking . . . it was 2008 . . . the year Brady missed with a torn pectoral . . . that’s why the joke was funny.)

FANTASY LAND:

The Commish: 0-1, 8th Place

Karen’s Handful: 0-1, 11th Place

(Tubba Thor, AKA Savage Beast that is my betrothed): 1-0, 2nd place.

So it was an exciting Week One. All the thrills. I hooked up two wide screen televisions to an actual, honest to god, thirty year old cable splitter, because I don’t throw things away, and it didn’t even make a dent in my coaxial cable collection.

This week we are adding a third screen and possibly streaming The Red Zone from a connection on my phone to an HDMI cable.

If you plan on attending BYOB.

Obviously, as stated before, my teams did not fare well, but that is at the heart of the kind of game I like to play.

I want to play all season. I want to scour the waiver wire at midnight on a Tuesday to see if I can find a narrative possibility that no one has thought of.

I want to stream defenses, tight ends, kickers, and RB2’s.

You lazy people with your good teams and set-em-and-forget-em line ups, you simply do not get to enjoy anything all year except your smug smiles and moist handshakes.

But at least I wasn’t part of both of the biggest blow outs of the week.

I was only on the losing end of one of them.

An oddly enough, both of the winning teams in the biggest blowout games were auto drafted.

I couldn’t possibly bring myself to ever do that, but sometimes I think I might give it a try.

I’ve got a really good smug smile, and my moist handshake is first class.

It’ll get better next week.

. . . and finally . . . 

CRAZY SILLY PREDICTIONs FOR NEXT WEEK:

Allen Robinson gets traded to Washington and now my two top receivers (Karen’s Handful) play for the same team.

Josh Gordon gets reinstated and I have to buy a Seahawks Jersey.

Jordan Reed is the Number 4 Tight End next week until Kittle heals.

Phillip Linsday’s little piggy stops wee-wee-weeing on my narrative and I suddenly have my dream Flex guy back.

My septuagenarian father gets to see the full savagery of my wife unleashed and has never been more proud of me in his life.

THAT’S IT Y’ALL

Circulation check Frankie.

Count them piggies.

Also, if you want to know the joke behind “Karen’s Handful” check out Hannah Gadsby’s comic stand up “Douglas” on Netflix. It’s very very very funny.