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Can you smell it, Diary? Can you goddamn smell it?
That’s the smell of fantasy football season emerging from hibernation. The swampy, sweaty crotch smell that’s permeating throughout the Humpleverse is the approaching glory of fantasy season. Your boy took home the office trophy last year. That was mostly because no one in the office was paying attention to their lineups after week five, but regardless of that, I still outlasted everyone. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to outlast people. That’s my hookup strategy at the bars, too.
Despite my success in our five dollar office league last year, I still ended up losing close to four figs in fantasy. I joined 18 leagues and only made the playoffs in three of them. That’s neither here nor there. The point is, Vince Humpbardi is ready to bend his fantasy leagues over the kitchen counter and show them the yellow brick road. That’s what I call my penis. The yellowish hue that my joint sported during senior year hasn’t returned since, but the nickname has stuck.
I finally got the group email from my boys inviting me to the league. I wanted to do Yahoo, but we went with ESPN instead. Whatever. I’m in charge of planning the draft party this year. I really don’t give a shit what site we use, because the draft party is what people are going to be talking about for years to come.
My buddy Grant emailed me and let me know that it was my turn to plan the draft party. Grant was in charge last year and totally blew it. All he did was rent out the backroom at a local tavern and put balloons up. I’m sorry, am I at a man fantasy draft party or a nine-year-old’s birthday? So lame. Grant dated this chick I had a crush on in college. Sam Connors. She was such a babe. I used to hit on her all the time in front of Grant and he’d get all mad. I think he still hates me. Whatever.
I knew it’d be easy to beat the dick off of Grant’s “party.” All I’d have to do is make sure that it wasn’t at some shitty bar in the ‘burbs. So, I started drafting my email:
To:Terror Squad <BoneDiddliesClassOf2012@googlegroups.com>
Subject: Fantasy Draft ’14
Hump here. I’ve been charged with the task of organizing this year’s Bone Diddlies Fantasy Football Extravaganza 2k14. After the embarrassing effort put forth by Grant last year, we’re doing it big this year. I want everyone to get super hammed and turn over some tables like it’s the old days. There are waitresses butts to be grabbed. But I was wondering as I was putting together my seventh mock draft in the power lounge (might upgrade to a sectional soon), what can we do to up the stakes this year? Here’s an informal list:
-Boobs made out of Tostitos chips.
-Giant vat of Gil Humplestead’s signature queso dip, “pussy cheese.” Tagline: “Taste the funk.”
-A midget dressed up as Danny Woodhead.
-A new trophy. That bedazzled beer pitcher we stole from Hooters in Atlanta is beat AF. We need a proper trophy.
-A suite at the Sheraton. I am NOT doing the backroom at The Backstop again. That place smells like rotten meat/Grant’s crotch meat.
-No fucking vegetables.
-A rental Maserati in the parking lot that we can test drive in between picks.
This is just a short list. Should probably only cost us a couple hundo each. Let me know.
That should get the boys all fired up. I can barely contain myself. My nethers are trembling in anticipation. I think I might come up with a signature dance move after each pick. I’ve also narrowed down my team name and I think I’m pretty close to making a choice. These are so classic:
-Ray Lewis Interracial Snuff Spectacular
-Grundle Taint (used it before, though)
-The Green Bone Packers
-Grant’s Bathhouse Secrets
-Grant’s Gay Crushes
-Grant’s Future Failed Marriages and Resentful Children
I think that’s a pretty solid list, eh? Really want to stick it to Grant this season. Best way I can do that is by embarrassing him with a super degrading team name. That guy is such a knob. Gil Humplestead only surrounds himself with the most successful and bright shining stars in the business world. Grant’s just some no-name public school teacher with a six for a wife. Loser.
Gil only runs with dudes who have a 10 on their arm, Diary. Speaking of dimes, I got my eye on this smoking hot cheerleader at the local high school. She’s a senior and I’m pretty sure she’s 18, so stay tuned. Lady Fortune is about to offer to go reverse cowgirl for Gilbert T. Humplestead any minute now.