So there we were, Malcolm and I at the Oakland public library, like we do most Wednesdays. A new librarian was droning on and on about frogs or ducks or something so my attention wandered to the little boy wandering around messing with everyone. The kid’s face looked like he was about 40, but was just learning to walk so I put his age at about 11 months. He was meandering about the small group pulling on other kid’s hair, giving hugs, and generally acting like a spazz. I find it comforting when Malcolm is not the biggest thug in the room.
After story time ended, we headed over the grocery store to buy some stuff. I know that you want me to tell you exactly what stuff I had to buy, but I won’t. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. I won’t even tell you why. So don’t ask. Anyways, I was looking for milk and apple juice and ran into the dad of the spazz. I said hi, and asked how old the little boy was. The dad said that she was a year old. Huh? That mess is a girl? I quickly looked her up and down for signs of femaleness and I found none. The kid had a squat body, skinny froggy legs, and nothing on the onesie she was wearing suggested that she either liked sports (which would make her a boy) or unicorns (which would make her a gay boy). Both dad and kid were black, so I immediately wondered if my total lack of perspective was because I am racist. I stared at the face of the spazz and wondered how the hell that little face could be a girls. Was it the fact that I am a racist which clouded my judgment? Was my being a sexist and looking for typically “male” features part of the problem? Was that kid really a girl. No way.
Ah hell. I don’t give a rats ass about this stupid story. My fantasy football draft is tomorrow. I love fantasy football like a dog likes his balls. If fantasy football was a steaming hot pile of pig droppings, I would get down there and rub it all over my face. Fantasy football could appoint a horse trainer to head up FEMA, start a war with Iraq without adequate planning, and ruin absolutely everything everywhere, and I would vote for it a second or third time. I care about fantasy football. I even use my brain. I normally am not the kind of guy who thinks a lot, preferring instead to react to situations with either blind rage or quiet sheepishness. Except for two situations, where I am quite analytical. First is fantasy football. Second is ordering meat at the butcher. I got so sick and tired of ordering half a pound of delicious ham only to have my grandiose plans thwarted by the meat clerk, who after slicing up my tasty swine would ask, “It’s a little over, is that allright?” Fuck no daddio, I don’t want .63 pounds. It’s too much ham!!! To control the situation, I have started bluffing about how much meat I actually need. Now I say I need .42 pounds of ham, and smile with glee when they ask, “is a half a pound ok?” You bet your sweet tits its ok.
Fantasy football challenges me in ways I never thought possible. If you don’t know what fantasy football is, I am not going to tell you. Instead I will punch you in the neck next time I see you and tell you how much you suck. To prepare for my draft, I simultaneously consider factors such as age, injury risk, prior year’s performance, quality of offensive line, and whether I hate the player’s guts. I then create lists, flow charts and squiggly lines to help me when I hit the ground on draft day. After draft day, I will spend every Sunday indoors at a dive bar watching the games with my “friends.” I say that they are my friends, but in fantasy football, there are no friends. Only sworn enemies. I will then come home and watch the Sunday games with my family and dance all around the house when something good happens and hit Malcolm with a pipe when bad stuff occurs. I may not win the championship this year, but it won’t be because of a lack of effort. I think about fantasy football all the time. I look at Malcolm and wonder whether there are any trades I should be making with my sworn enemies. I look at a tree outside our house and wonder who the best kicker in the league is. I see a radiator and wonder whether the Vietnamese gardener who is locked in our crawl space is still alive. God I love fantasy football. The only thing I would do differently is change the name. Anything that I take this seriously shouldn’t be called fantasy anything. That’s like calling an elite army unit the fighting “cupcakes.” If I could rename fantasy football, I would call it Intensely Rewarding Football Analytical Numerology. So that is interesting for a whole new reason. The first letters spell IRFAN, who was a huge fat disgusting Persian guy I knew in college. At least I thought he was a guy. You never know, I am a racist.
Tags: fantasy football, paul in public
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holy moly