The Inside Poop

No one knows a fucking thing. But they still say things regardless.


It’s interesting, however, to pick-through the shreds of reasoning most pundits (talking-heads) have for their beliefs. What am I referring to, exactly? It’s the brutally humbling world of NFL Fantasy Sports. Duh.


Not surprisingly, I’ve created MY OWN league this year. Much as I described in previous posts, but re-balanced, tweaked and tested throughout the long, dead wasteland of the offseason. OTA’s are about as boring as dead turtles fucking. Training camps don’t begin until the end of the month. We’re getting close, but we’re not there yet.


For me, the NFL is strangely pleasing. It demonstrates a high level of strategy on the part of coordinators and coaches, portrays momentary, great or panicked decision-making, huge physical exertion, and the whole thing is done at full fucking speed. Every play is different, albeit, the majority can seem (initially), fundamentally uninteresting; the nature of the expectation is wonder: will anything happen? What is about to happen? What about this new set of circumstances?


The criteria of achievement changes, and the game seems to have a “flow” about it; where “momentum” or “energy” can dictate rapid alterations to previous events, or inspire dramatic action. It is assignments, physical struggles, and a challenge to play in the most crucial engagement at the pinnacle of athleticism. The best of the best, play in the NFL.


People who can’t play (nor have the desire to), are locked into an observational standpoint, where analysis and understanding prove to be the most integral endeavors. Pondering the game’s endless complexities, and literal collisions of outcomes can result in endless moments of entertainment (for me, at least).


Numerical values make sense to my tiny brain, so mathematically expressing these athlete’s achievements is a good way to keep track of things, study said things and ponder upon their celestial importance. Often times, pundits will claim to have unlocked the future’s magnificent secrets, by injecting the womb of uncertainty with the semen of opinion. Such transparent, pointless and dangerous intrusions are for the decidedly meek, easily-controlled masses. It comes from no source of comparable meaning, and therefore, has no value.


I can go on all day claiming “well, I think THIS BULLSHIT HERE is going to happen.” But really, who am I kidding? I don’t fucking know; neither do they. They’d like you to think they know. But they don’t. No one does. I hope that’s clear…


Just laying this out there: what if, instead of pontificating about nothing, we concentrate our efforts on making relevant observations, or concluding upon facts.


I try to ignore most things I hear. It’s probably a good policy in general. I get to form my own opinions, while lying partially-submerged in the clear pool of ignorance. I much prefer to not know, than know something useless.


This year, I am commissioner of the work-wide fantasy football league, customized to a very discerning and particular set of rules and conversions. Points will have to be earned with skilled, logical guesses. Player values are going to be assessed through preference, primarily. At least, I believe opinions to have the majority-share of the projected worth of anyone in the NFL. Projected is another word for “here, I pulled this out of my ass, and it’s just for you!”


I’m a ticking time-bomb of expectation and suspense. I have been RIGHT THERE, “in it” every fucking year. And I never take the crown. Fuck that noise.


I said this last year too, right before my stupid fucking Uncle imploded my 8-2 record (with 2 wins against HIM). Disgraceful behavior that simply can’t be repeated.


So, here I go into waiting. Waiting for my drafts, and thinking numerical thoughts, in the pendulum-swing of comprehension that is my offseason routine. I make no Unitas Guarantee. I just plug away at my spreadsheets, and hope.