I’m not going to engage in a lot of trash talking here.
It wasn’t easy getting this far, and it wasn’t without luck; frankly, there was little one would classify as “clever” or “shrewd” in my season. A lot of better players and teams, having suffered unforeseeable misfortunes, are starin’ at me in utter disbelief.
And now, at the end of the season, the waiver wires –often the only thing keeping me an inch or two ahead of my respective matchups- have dried up.
Alas, Predator Press has no reason to expect to continue to win.
Thusly faced by a number of teams I cannot beat -and as my season comes to its inevitable and overdue end- one might expect me to be classy and gracious; to rise above the petty and slanderous "Trash Talk" common amongst sports enthusiasts.
And one might also expect me not to call Chris Cameron a stinky-faced poo poo head (despite his attempt to kill Jesus).
But from the automobile to the standard kitchen blender