Why Fantasy Football is Destroying America, One Brain Cell at a Time

I love cliches. Cliches are the black granddaddies of folk wisdom. They’ve seen it all. They’ve survived it all. And they remind us of hard-earned wisdom that the young folks may never acquire. They never pass up a chance to flirt with/dance with a pretty girl. “Pretty girl” being loosely defined as any human female with a pulse, an attitude, and the good fortune to be walking nearby.

Actual quote from 2007: “Oh, my heart. Too many pretty ladies walking today”. Middle aged gentleman fans self with right hand. Winks.

Oh my stars. What was the topic here? Oh, yes. Fantasy Football.

Well at least we started off with a li’l bit of fantasy.

There is no “I” in team. But there’s plenty of “I” in diva. D Jack, we’re looking at you. Peyton , get over it.

FantasyFootball can be fun. Gambling can be fun. Playing “gotcha” with your buddies can be fun. But that don’t feed the bulldog.

Playing Fantasy destroys what few brain cells y’all got left. If there were any scientists left to search for them.

Soon you’ll never watch an NFL game with any insight as to what is going on. Jameis Winston shouting from a cafeteria tabletop suddenly becomes Proust. Old Horsepiss starts to taste like Tsing Tao. Doritos magically disappear down your gullet. Some get tossed at the ceiling. Others get examined for secret messages from Donald Trump and/or Kim Kardashian.

Let the male bonding begin.

Hey, bro…it’s awesome.

OK fine.

But you’ll never again notice that the punt returner ran backwards in search of glory and personal goal fulfillment. With the game on the line. Or notice that an RAC for TD is better than an RAC for a TD-6". “What an awesome run, Dorian! “ “Dude’s really bring it today, Antwone” “Who tooken the last Dorito?” “Catch that cheerleader at the 54 yard line”.

It gets worse.

When the playoffs approach, Mo begins to feel like a wallflower.

“They lose first four games and stuff. Who need their sorry ass?”

“Hot damn! My man Peyton’s played two complete friggin’ games. Man must be made of steel.”

Come hither, my fine about-to-be-defeathered homies. I’ll book your action for the 5th at Laurel. The M15000 is lookin’ pretty fresh, too.

Heaven forfend that such persons should attempt to coach an actual NFL team. But that’s a story for another day.

And don’t forget to tip the pizza delivery guy. He works hard for the money.