That Time of Year Again

I do not play Fantasy Football. I don't even particularly understand the sport, truth be told. I know, how un-American of me. Eat me. I get enough input as to which player is injured, whether or not it is "season-ending", and the gory details in which it happened. I've seen instant replay on some nasty stuff. If I don't watch it I have to listen to my husband exclaim, "Oh my God!! That is SOOO bad! I'll bet that hurts! That sucks! He's my guy! Check this one out!" or any combo of those phrases. I hear about "his team" and how he's going to lose by one point. If he actually DOES lose by one point, I listen to a blow-by-blow description of the play that brought him to this lowly state. If I knew how to play the violin, I might even play a slow Beethoven tune sadly until the period of mourning has passed. Maybe I can hire someone for that..

In all seriousness, my husband is on 4 different Fantasy Leagues. It sounds like something that would come with free passes to Scores or at least free Hooters wings. No, none of that. I get free whining sessions about how the Bears "fucked him hard" with all their horrible plays and interceptions. And by "whine" I WISH it as a sweet bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Is my husband rich enough to own his own team, er, I mean four teams? No. Is he on the sidelines consulting with the coaches to assure the plays bring a winning result? No. I can assure you one thing, if we DID have enough money to own our own team I would certainly have my own personal shopper at Neiman Marcus and she would definitely NEVER go to Target to select my jeans. True Religion and Sevens, baby, all the way!! Now that's a fashion touchdown.

Fantasy Football has become a cult with American males. It gives our husbands a bigger reason to obsess over football (us lucky bitches). It gives them a reason to throw in a "friendly wager". What, is it a mere $20 that you contribute per league? If any of your husbands win and happen to pick up a pricey little ANYTHING that's not for you, let me know. I am thinking there might be a slight under-estimation of the monetery contributions at hand, Just a hunch. I've never actually witnessed the money changing hands but then again, as a non-Fantasy member, I am not entitled to the sacred Draft Ceremony. I think they are secretly wearing velvet robes and spanking each other with wooden paddles but I'm not sure. Picking your players is a weekly occassion.They have to be approved by The Commissioner, a highly esteemed position. It's like the Pope of the league, except he can gamble and drink loads of beer on Sundays and Mondays and often opt out of ever going to church.

So women need to come up with something equally inane we can bet on and curse about, well except for the regularity of which our husbands take out the trash or make the bed. Since I'm such a reality TV whore perhaps we could make bets on those shows. Good God, we'd have enough to choose from...Kimora Lee Simmons (don't know the name of the show but she is a diva-licious mess), Survivor (they're in China now and there are enough freaks with grating personalities than you can shake a stick at!), the Amazing Race (my personal fave), Real World (yes, sadly this show is still running. I admit this is the first season I have not followed. I believe they're in Australia. It always makes me wonder if I was that much of an asshole when I was 21..), Hogan Knows Best (what a bizarre-ass family this is. Highly entertaining), The Girls Next Door (I fully expect old Hef to kick off pretty soon. I don't see what these vivacious, bimbo-tastic beauties see in him besides free room and board and a big wallet. I really doubt he's getting it up for one of them, let alone all three. I imagine his cock has spiderwebs and resembles a shriveled bratwurst someone left under a couch cushion), and Dr. 90210 (having gone under the knife myself I hold special interest. The procedures are intriguing--this chumba-wumba 49 year-old VIRGIN was getting a procedure to bring out his HIDDEN PENIS. It could never become erect, being hidden beneath his balls and an enormous roll of fat so he had never had sex. After the procedure was deemed "a success" he was ready to consummate his marriage. I felt so sorry for this woman, having to act all psyched she was about to see her husband's ginormous 2 1/2 inch dick after all these years. I'd be like, "Sorry, babe. You got the operation but mama still wants to feel like she's actually having sex. I'm leaving you and your cocktail wiener for our gardener, Juan. His garden hose is at least something I can WORK with!")

So for our Fantasy Reality League, I would be the Commisioner. You could draw for first round picks. My first pick would be Holly from the Girls Next Door. She is as sweet and cute as her tits are perky. I suppose we could make bets on who would have the most outrageous behavior each week, who won the most competitions (Survivor and Amazing Race), who wore the sluttiest clothes (Girls Next Door, Real World, The Hills, Hogan Knows Best), who got the drunkest (Real World, Girls Next Door), bonus points for puking (Survivor and Real World), and whose clothes came off due to wrestling, competitions, sex, or sheer drunkenness. At the end of the season we could have a Superbowl of Reality-dom and everyone would come dressed as their favorite person. We could play Pin The Tribal Torch on Jeff Probst and then karaoke rap-style like Kendra on Girls Next Door. I'd even offer metal Grills for yo' teef to be all gangsta' up in dis hizzle. Then we could be just like the boys, well minus the penis and "my-arms-are-just-like-a-Tyrannasaurus-Rex-so-I-can't-quite-reach-the-recycling-bin-to-toss-my-five-cases-of-Bud-Light-into-them-but-I-still-love-you-dear." Ah, it's good to be Queen.