My week one looks like this: Denver Shit Stains 0-1, Happy Shits 0-1, Cotton Touchers 0-1.

I never played football and I don’t know much about it other than they line up and throw or run and I know the good skill players and I know that whomever I think will win, does not, in fact, win. But that doesn’t stop me from spending two weeks worth of pay at the beginning of each season on fantasy football. I read the magazines and make these retarded spread sheets and I draft sleepers and studs and I’m feeling good about life until eleven o’clock. Then my whole day goes to shit. My players drop passes. They fumble. They throw the ball to the other team. All of my opponents have epic days.

I fucking hate Sundays.

I worked this past Sunday. That turned out to be a little bit of a good thing because I wasn’t mashing refresh on espn.com and I wasn’t cursing the TV and I made a little bit of money back that was undoubtedly wasted as soon as I said yes to another fantasy league. But that’s kind of bullshit. I hid my phone in sweaters I folded at work. I didn’t talk to a customer the entire day. I was still rather miserable, at least once I realized none of my players would eclipse the hundred yard mark.

But with that being said, I still thought I had a chance in one league. I was up by seven with Santonio Holmes going. My dick-head brother in law had Witten. Things were going so well and I was going to win, no question about it, Holmes hauling in short slants all night, an eleven point cushion, my spirits lifting, me feeling rather sorry for Robbie and his juvenile throwing of the Gatorade against the wall.

And then there was a seventy-yard catch.

There’s always a seventy-yard catch.

I just don’t get it. I want to hurt people when I lose at fantasy. I want to break things. This isn’t me. I’m more of the type to want to cut my thighs with a razor blade. But not with fantasy. I want to cry and I want to act out and smash plates and my brother in law just sat there smug as fuck and my dog crept to his little round bed, curling into a mound of soft serve.

It doesn’t matter. I know this. The money I have a chance of making is rather insignificant. It’s something else. Pride. Ego. Competition. Being smarter than other people and maybe it has to do with mainlines, not my strong suit, me with my argyle socks and inability to change my oil, me just wanting to be better at sports (yes, I’m considering the participation in fantasy a sport, fuck off). I don’t know. It just makes me furious.

So my week one shout-outs go like this:

Fuck you, Jason Witten.

And you, Robbie Lane.