The year . . . 2014.
I was a strapping lad then, full of spit and vinegar.
Quite unlike the snot and merlot I'm filled with now.
Actually I try not to drink too much before noon. I'm fairly convinced the Crossing Guard at my son's school carries a breathalyzer in that formidable looking purse.
But back to the past.
After the most disappointing 2013 any fantasy football enthusiast has ever had, I came roaring from behind and stayed competitive throughout the whole 2014 season.
"How the hell did that happen?" you gasp.
"But you're doomed!" an audience members screams.
"Down here . . . we all float . . . " says the clown in my drainage pipe.
But I had something in my back pocket, and it was fully loaded, the hammer cocked.
That thing . . . was Garbage Time Jay Cutler.
And it was a thing of beauty.
With Brandan Marshall, Alshon Jeffery, Martelius Bennet, Matt Forte, and a defense like a trailer park in a hurricane, Garbage Time Cutler had no choice but to throw throw throw.
And throw he did.
I won't belabor the point. I know you'd rather have a very angry Tom Brady than a Garbage Time Hero, with cocaine still on his lapel, and a dead hooker in the back seat of his Jeep Grand Cherokee, but there's a certain wicked gluttony that comes from scoring insane numbers as the victim of circumstance.
Blake Bortles 2015 . . . am I right?
So who is the Garbage Time Hero 2016?
My money (literally) . . . (and I actually mean literally) . . . (not the figurative meaning that my stepson means when he says literally.) . . . My money is on Motor City's Mad Man of Mixed Results . . . Matthew Stafford.
I mean sure . . . he lost Megatron, who had gone from his favorite woobie to just a soggy wet blanket, but his entire receiving core had been thoroughly updated, and there ain't no running game from which to speak.
(Shush Riddick fans, just shush)
And how could I forget to mention Jim Bob Cooter?
Jim Bob Cooter.
You can't even think those words without simultaneously wanting to titter like a school girl and get a sudden craving for a room temperature Natty Ice.
Did you know Cooter was born in 1984?
That's the same year that Van Halen released 1984.
And the title of that book by that one guy. Boy was he wrong. And by 'wrong' I mean off by 32 years.
If DoubleSpeak isn't a perfectly worded description of our political climate, then I don't know what to tell you.
Orwell . . . that was his name.
I should read more.
Anyway,
Stafford certainly proved me right Week 1, while sitting on my bench, and he proved me wrong Week 2, and then right again Week 3, and then wrong again Week 4, so there's certainly an up and down pattern I'm feeling.
But last week should have been a "proved me right week".
Remember the Bears' Defense?
Trailer Park in a Hurricane?
Earlobes in a Tyson fight?
Hopes and Dreams passed the age 37?
They were sneaky good against my Garbage Time Hero.
The Bears did to Detroit's Offense what NAFTA did to Detroit's middle class.
(I was gonna say catalytic converter instead of NAFTA, but I'll bet only three of you even know what a catalytic converter is and why it actually had more impact on American car manufacturing than a trade deal with Mexico.)
Point being . . . Motor City was f&#king itself long before Bill Clinton could.
Y'all should read more.
I bet Jim Bob Cooter would say something like that.
Y'all.
Anyway, The Big D is going up against the Philly Cheesesteaks this week and they haven't allowed squat through the air. The Eagles are gonna win so big by the middle of the third quarter that I'm betting they send out members of their practice squad to do battle with the Stafford/Jones/Ebron connection.
I'm not saying it will happen, I'm just saying that that's where my money's at.
I'll win if it does, I'll lose if it don't.
"Down here . . . everything floats." says the clown again.
THE BIG NEWS:
Guess who's back?
Guess again.
That's right . . . Karlos "Mom's Spaghetti" Williams.
(For the record . . . that's two Eminem references in less than twenty words.)
Actually, Karlos is not technically back . . . he's just off suspension and sitting on the free agent list waiting for a team desperate to get the running game going.
Hmmm . . . I wonder if there is a team out there that needs a running game?
Oh . . . Brady too. I guess he's news. Whatever. I own nothing of The Patriots, though there is a good chance that by mentioning catalytic converters I am now being watched under The Patriot Act.
"But wait!" I say to the Secret Service as they cart me off to the room decorated for Edward Snowden, "It's not a crime to say things that can easily be found on Wikipedia!"
"Shush, Stafford fan," they mumble "Just shush."
INJURIES AND BAD DECISIONS
I'm sad about Bowman. He was one of the few lights left of a 49er team that's as shiny as a bright copper penny.
By that reference, I mean it looks really shiny there for a second (Week 1), but then you kinda realize it's just a penny in a world that's all about the Benjamins.
Kaepernick really needs to start eating animal protein again. I'm not saying he's the greatest quarterback in the world, but Torrey Smith has a folded picture of Joe Flacco in his wallet that's falling apart from all the tears.
FANTASYLAND
Teddy's Stump Speech: 3-1 (3rd place)
Trump's Twitter Game: 3-1 (4th place)*
Cheney's Shotgun: 2-2 (6th place)
Week 4 was a hat-trick once again despite Marvin Jones' lack of effervescence. Each win was pretty convincing, though there was moment on Monday Night where if Kyle Rudolph had just two more TD's then Charlie's Primo Team might have given Teddy a run for his money.
Now you may have noticed the Asterix (*) after Trump's 4th place notation and that's because the league is set up in Divisions.
And in my division, even though I have the same amount of wins as the leader, and even though I am beating him in total points, he beat me in the disastrous Week 2 Division game and therefore is sitting smugly in his thoroughly unearned spot.
"Do you expect me to care?" he says.
"No, Mr. Gold. I expect you to die."
(NSA note: That's a James Bond quote, guys, I do not, in fact, expect Mr. Gold to die.)
Though praying for shinsplints is not out of the question.
This week, I'm playing against two girls . . . and Peter.
The two girls are in 1st place and 2nd place, respectively, and Peter . . . not so much.
He's a deep 5th to my unfairly judged 4th.
And he's a Giants fan.
For reference . . . I'm Xavier Rhodes to his O'Dell Beckham.
He plays with passion and emotion, I like to push people when they're already out of bounds. It's a good match.
The girls I'm a little scared of. They don't play with passion. They play an emotionless game of cat and mouse and they do it without mercy or regret.
I'm seriously considering going out and getting my wife some flowers just so Kharmic Male/Female Ju-Ju is ever so slightly in my favor.
Chicks love flowers.
In order for me to win any of these games next week I need Aaron Rodgers to light it up after the BYE.
I need Garbage Time Stafford to hit the panic button in an efficient but ultimately fruitless effort.
Jim Bob Cooter.
And . . . since Brees is sunbathing naked this week with Willie Snead,
and everybody in that particular effing league is holding onto like six quarterbacks,
I actually need Brian Hoyer to rock my world or Peter is going to send me a dead fish wrapped in Luca Brassi's bullet proof vest.
"It means he's sleeping with the fishes." says Corleone.
"I've slept with a fish." says the clown in my drainage pipe.
CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS LAST WEEK
Alright so last week I predicted Hoyer/Jeffery 2016. I was half right, Hoyer went 302yrds and 2 TDs, but it was Eddie Royal on the other end of the line.
I said the Bills would dominate for 3 minutes, I was right, but they dominated the rest of the game too. Sorry about that Patrick. At least you get Brady back . . . tanned penis and all.
I said Leveon would be eased in (nope) and Wheaton would go off (1-30-1, so, nope-ish)
I said Fitzmagic would get benched after 4 interceptions, damn close, only three, he lives another week.
And lastly, I said the Browns would get some good news. Well . . . um . . . they get the Patriots this week, so . . . um . . . at least after the game the opponent's locker room will smell vaguely like coco-butter and whatever the smell is you get after sunbathing naked with a supermodel.
I bet that's a good smell.
"I'd like to smell like that." says the clown, sadly. "Now I smell like balloons and that gray stuff that used to be toothpaste that collects in the U-bend of the bathroom sink."
CRAZY STUPID PREDICTION THIS WEEK
Kaepernick enters game before the 4h Quarter
Todd Gurley, 27 carries, 8.5 yards.
Odell has a monster game, Giants still lose, and Eli can't stop going on about how soft Clay Matthews' hair is.
Garbage Time Stafford saves me from Karen's wrath.
A J MF Green . . . Mike . . . AJ MF Green.
AND FINALLY
I wish you all the best in your fantasy endeavors. And by 'all' I really just mean Steve who needs to beat Mr. Gold this week despite having to go against Brady in a grudge match against Goodell.
Also, I need more readers, so if at any point I made you laugh, you owe me at least one share on Facebook or Twitter . . . even Myspace would be fine Peter.
Note: I bet Peter's the third guy besides me and Dad who knows what a catalytic converter is.
He's that old.
"Nobody ever gets old down here." says the clown.
Shush, Pennywise, just shush.
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