Dead Sea Regresses to the Norm

Welcome back to the Dead Sea, where the only thing saltier than the water is your faithful columnist. Without time to do extensive analysis like the Commish, desire to answer random people’s questions like Smeet, and an actual editorial calendar unlike the Sausage King, I’m left with salt and complaints about this league, fellow managers, real-life NFL game outcomes, our racist-ass country, and life in general.

Well that was nice while it lasted. One week of actually winning allowed me the brief respite from bitterness to stretch my literary limbs and give GMRRFFA an “instant classic” commemorating the Commish’s week three stinker. But after getting absolutely plowed in week four, I’m back to being salty. Real salty. (Commissioner’s note: So sorry your literary career came crashing down after one week. Couldn’t happen to a bigger asshole.)

The worst thing about week four is something I’m betting many fantasy footballers can commiserate with: The split incentive of playing against a stud you’re rostering in another league. This week I got hit with the worst of both sides, as I watched Chubb absolutely plow into me over, and over, and over again, leading Stabs to an absolute demolition of my team. But that same stiff Chubb performance led me to a resounding victory in my other league (Commissioner’s note: No one cares about GMRRFFA, let alone your other league. Who are you? Toby Kobach?).

Every time Chubb would rise to the occasion and push in another long one, I felt sick to my stomach. Do I cheer? Do I get mad? So instead I was left with this half-disgusted, half-excited feeling.

And the split incentive got even worse on Sunday Night Football! I wanted Amari to beast for my GMRRFFA squad to at least make my week respectable, but I needed him to suck an egg to hold on for a win in my OL, which of course is the league I care about far less than our glorious clusterfuck. Another three hours of simultaneous nauseousness and elation.

This is why I refuse to join any additional leagues.

Speaking of my week four cornholing, screw the Commish for reverse-jinxing Stabs’ death squad with his preview post calling him out for being 3-0 despite posting below-average weekly scores. OF COURSE HE BLEW UP ON MY TEAM. I felt like Luke witnessing Emperor Palpatine unveil the firepower of his fully armed and operational battle station. Can we please stop talking about Mark Hutchinson being the favorite this year and give Stabs the respect he deserves, or does he have to blow up two or three more Rebel frigates first?

And Eric Ebron can go pound sand, for that matter. Guy can’t catch anything all day with his iron manacles and then he pulls it together for a meaningless, garbage-time 48-yard touchdown, just to twist the knife in my side? COME ON.

I’m not done complaining about tight ends. Namely, HOW IS THE COMMISH NOW THE TIGHT END WHISPERER? Squeezing a “breakout performance” out of TJ Hockenson in week one just to trade him to Garcia. Massaging future Hall of Famer Mark Andrews just long enough to trade him away to Coop (#Neverforget). And now, picking lumbering ginger Will Dissly up off the scrap heap of obscurity to yet again turn shit into shineola! Gimme a break with this guy. Next thing you know he’ll ride Carlos’ castoff Jake Butt to TE1 for the rest of the year.

Meanwhile, the Curse of Jazz Ferguson rises again… Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. How in the hell do you start Scary Terry when everyone in the world knew he was not playing? It’s not like you have a wealth of riches to rely on and don’t need to actually start players who are, you know, playing. It’s pretty simple man - check in on your team 15 minutes before game time, and set your lineup. Have some pride - I’m not asking for much.

Finally, STOP TRYING TO PICK MY CARCASS DEAD, YOU VULTURES! Seriously! I’m 1-3, not even close to Galen or Carlos territory. But no, the Sunday Night Game wasn’t even over, and here come the trade offers, pretending to want to help my team in order to peel off my home run hitters for a bag of dicks. And worst of all, I GOT MORE TRADE INQUIRIES AFTER I SAID TO STOP SENDING THEM TO ME!

Jesus, this must be what it feels like to have nice boobs and have to deal with dudes constantly asking for nudes. This is the one time I don’t want to see someone else’s Chubb. (Commissioner’s note: Literally the most tragic anecdote ever.)

Riff Raff

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