When the jackass fantasy owner drafted first and acted as if the pick was his God-given right and guaranteed his success,
I remained silent;
I was drafting seventh anyway.
When he offered a flurry of lopsided trades to the league and acted indignant when no one would trade with him in “this lameass dead league”,
I remained silent;
I was not fooled.
When he finally found a sucker to trade with,
I did not speak out;
I was winning anyway.
When the jackass fantasy owner started churning through the waiver wire like a steamboat traipsing down the Mississippi and making it impossible for anyone to pick up a player worth a damn without ruining their waiver ranking,
I remained silent;
I didn’t have any injuries yet.
When he threw a hissy fit worthy of a spastic seven year old that just downed a 10-pack of Pixy Stix with a chaser of a case of Red Bull when someone else tries to trade with his week’s opponent that might marginally improve the opponent,
I did not speak out;
I was busy preparing to get my ass kicked by the other guy in the trade.
When he taunted the league relentlessly about his superiority in fantasy football and equated it with his superiority wooing and mating with the opposite sex and suggested perhaps his competitors were less adept with the opposite sex, perhaps due to their latent desire to
mate with the same sex in a very painful and perhaps impossible manner,
I remained silent;
I knew his sexual experience was based mostly on the pity of a generous aunt.
When he crushed me in the head-to-head playoffs using the pilfered players, the canceled trades, and the trail of waived bodies,
There was no one left to speak out.
When he tried to buddy up with me after the season with a slap on the back and a “aw, c’mon, you’re not gonna hold that against me, are ya, bro?”,
I made sure they wouldn’t find the body.
