Subject: Fantasy football season wrap-up.
To: Fantasy 2012 email list
Congratulations on yet another great season of fantasy football. As your commissioner, I enjoyed many fine moments, not the least of which was Saturday's banquet at the Rusty Zipper, which almost none of you bothered to attend. Those who did got a lot out of the experience. It reminded me of a really bad old episode of "Family Feud," where both teams are from moonshiny Mid-South states and Richard Dawson can't understand a single word anyone says. Me, I didn't understand one thing you guys said, though you said it in such a wonderfully spitty fashion, in a way that befits a loud, obnoxious sports bar during a playoff game. As Commish, I was just happy to sit back and see my dysfunctional owners enjoy their last moments of fantasy freedom.
Most of all, congrats to Rick on his win and subsequent engagement to the barmaid. Some might find a 25-minute courtship too quick. Others might point out that Rick was already married. Those seem minor quibbles when dealing with the vagaries of the human heart. I don't think it's our place to dismiss a spur-of-the-moment Lake Elsinore honeymoon for any of the traditional reasons. Once again, romance surprises us all, showing up as it did in the darkest corridors of modern life, or more specifically, in that sticky little nook behind the dartboard. So mazel tov to Rick and his beautiful new bride, Jinx. Bob only asks that you two kids return his beat-up RV by June, when he wants to sponge it down with pool chemicals before departing for his next bass tournament.
Where to start on a recap of our terrific fantasy season? Condolences to those of you who picked Matthew Stafford or Cam Newton, or fell for the ruse that Peyton Hillis was a super sleeper at RB. Condolences to anyone who took any Chicago Bear besides Brandon Marshall, who didn't flip out like everybody feared, at least not much. In Chicago, it's hard to distinguish the crazy from the barely functional. One hint: The crazy usually wear Bears jerseys. The barely functional work in the upper echelons of city government.
One housekeeping note: My records show that nobody has yet paid the $20 league entrance fee. As was made very clear, that was due before the draft in August — no exceptions. In my case, it slipped my mind. In your case, you have no minds. Please pay Rick as quickly as possible, preferably in a currency he can never redeem. For instance, Hinden is paying him $20 in expired Happy Meal gift cards. Paget is paying him in sticky notes. Why? Because it's the right thing to do.
I would also like to take this moment to encourage many of you to reintroduce yourselves to your wives and families. Think of it as coming back from war, except that you fought for the wrong side. I wouldn't even attempt to explain that you've been working on "your taxes, screenplay, scrapbook, ransom note or writ of certiorari" for the last 18 weeks. The only sufficient explanation is a small bracelet with diamonds the size of Maryland. Or big bricks of cash. Even then, most of you will probably be in the doghouse till August, at which point you should start prepping for next year's draft, again to be held at the Rusty Zipper, if the old joint hasn't burned down by then. If it has, it'll be held there anyway.
To those of you who kept pestering me with your inane questions about the playoff rules, I apologize for not getting back to you sooner, or not having friends smart enough to look on the ESPN website for themselves. As for T-Bone's incessant questions on Demi Lovato's career, or the nature of dark matter, I have no answers either. I also don't know Tony Siragusa's bra size or why Honda bothered with a tachometer on Craig's minivan, which barely hit 40 even when it was new. Again, I just have to sit back and admire the engaging sense of wonder you geniuses bring to almost every issue.
Finally, to those of you in the father-son league who tried to pass it off as a startup Cub Scout troop, please be aware that some of the moms might be onto us. I know this only because one of them, Ken's lovely wife, said something along the lines of "If any of you idiots think we're fooled for one minute by that Cub Scout thing, you're even slower than we thought."
Of course, I'm leaving out certain invectives, and the well-practiced hydraulic hiss with which Ken's wife said it. But I think you get the gist. So from now on, we're a father-son chess club, OK?
Till next year, the Commish