In contrast to my esteemed colleagues Renal Failure and Chris Cameron (well, Chris anyway), I’m going to illustrate why a non-ranked autodraft is a horrible idea.
Here is what Yahoo! gave me last year, in order:
2.(15) Brandon Jacobs
3. (26) Reggie Wayne
4.(35) Brandon Marshall
5. (46) Tony Gonzalez
6.(55) Jay Cutler
7. (66) Minnesota
8. (75) Mason Crosby
9. (86) Ronnie Brown
10. (95) Darren McFadden
11. (106) Eddie Royal
12. (115) Lance Moore
13. (126) Ben Roethlisberger
14. (135) Vernon Davis
15. (146) Garrett Hartley
16. (155) Seattle
But eventually those lazy Suicide Hotline people stopped answering my calls -and those assholes at "911" blocked my phone number because I was faking concern for the Suicide Hotline people! My mother didn't know shit about football, and the Vatican was completely ambivalent. Even my loyal cat Phil was no help. Getting third place in 2009 with that mess? Don’t think it was it was easy for a second: at one point I got a blister on my finger from all the 'googling,' and had to go on my own Injured Reserve List to collect Fantasy Disability.
But I never gave up. NEVER! The sacred and hallowed name of Predator Press shall not be tainted by loss under my watch!
The worse things got, the more I would reach down, deep into my entrails for the will to continue the fight.
I swear upon various gods what follows is true, and Chris can verify it: if you examine my transactions a little closer, you'll see I was actually drafting virtually any free agent playing against the Rams I could get my hands on. And with this "betting against the Rams" technique, I ended up a Contender until about Week 10. It was right around then that Brian Westbrook -my #1 draft "pick"- triumphantly returned. But after nursing the inconsiderate prick along all season, what does he do? About eight seconds into his first game, he got his noggin scrambled into tapioca. What an asshole!
-Week 10 was also right around when Unfinished Rambler informed me there was no Week 17. I didn't know it at the time, but any hope for the Championship teetered on the results of games 13 and 14; the single late-season loss to La Machine took me out of position 2, thus the final round with an unforeseeably-beatable Championship Week 16 Renal Failure would never come to pass. In Week 10(ish), I had everything comfortably pointed at Week 17 -when I thought the Finals were.
Chris had obviously been fooling my entrails all along.
And he stole my 2009 Championship.
Fucking diabolical, wasn't it?
Thusly riddled with a savage lust for vengeance, I needed some diabolical advice so I could get some swift and lethal payback on Chris pronto. So desperate was I to slake the vacuous, raging thirst for justice!
But there’s no Gatorade big enough for a vacuous, raging thirst for justice my friend ... When I asked Chris for advice this year, I explained up-front to him how dire my circumstances were in order to seek his advice again -I even mentioned that I'd asked my cat first. As result of my heartfelt sincerity, Chris promised he wouldn’t sabotage me anymore. So we're cool, and bygones are bygones ... and with Chris onboard to help me destroy him? Hah! He is totally screwed.
Alas, my diabolical non-autodraft shall remain top secret until the last minute. But let not your hearts be troubled -I shant prevent you from basking in all of my football geniosity.
-Just most of it.
Offensive Coordinator: Tarken HawkWorthy
NFL football legend Fran Tarkenton's presence in this elite cadre of Predator Press specialists should be self-explanatory.
See, once Predator Press gets chicks falling under all this wild and unbridled irresistible machismo, we think they might force their boyfriends and/or husbands to buy Predator Press mechandise for them. You know … for doing the dishes or laundry or whatever.
So we needed someone that could not only bring in the ladies, but could create the sound of soggy panties slapping against pavement at will.
We needed the estrogen equivalent of a nuclear bomb.
We needed Fran Tarkenton.
(As much as I wanted to represent the juggernaut of wisdom aka Predator Press personally, it turned out I was too expensive; this -coupled with the fact that Terri would have ripped my head off- made me withdraw from consideration.)
Steven Hawking, in contrast, recently helped Predator Press launch six of eight footballs through a dense cloud of bears into deep space. These footballs are scheduled to land in the northern End Zone in Week 11, so if we win that coin toss (and aren't killed by falling bears or Jay Cutler radio promotions) that game is all locked up already.
I added Jeff Foxworthy because I can’t get enough of “You might be a redneck” jokes. Besides, the only shark head we have was too big.
In retrospect I suppose I could have sewn the heads on either Tarkenton or Foxworthy, as tests showed their bodies are somewhat more fully-functional than Hawking's (we also discovered that if we made Hawking speed his wheelchair across the field while drinking a light beer, we all aged twenty minutes). But to be honest, using Hawking's body is a judgment error I can live with frankly; this way they are all very easy to find when I need them, and their maintenance is significantly cheaper -TarkenHawkWorthy only requires a feed tube running in, and a waste tube running out.
I have Brian Westbrook switch them twice a day.
Defensive Coordinator: ???
I don’t even know our Defense Coordinator’s real name.
-He’s that good!
Aside from the obvious qualifications, this guy enjoys working a Saddam Hussein tribute band, drinking "40s," classical art from the 1800s, and baking.
On top of all that, he further devotes all his spare time to the Boy Scouts of America and "ditching the Federales."
(I don't speak Mexican.)
Miscellaneous Positions: Pastrami Sandwich
I don’t exactly remember why I hired this pastrami sandwich, or what I hired it to do. But who doesn’t love a good pastrami sandwich? I mean even if you’re not hungry, you still have that warm and fuzzy reassuring feeling that you have a pastrami sandwich in the refrigerator for several hours. Mmmmmm ...*
Miscellaneous Positions: Barbarossa
I have no idea where Barbarossa got the idea that I am his parole officer, but I cannot in good conscience inhibit his reformation and social reintegration.
Not knowing what exactly a parole officer does, I had a big prize wheel installed behind my chair: among other mundane things like 'Get A Job' and 'Help Hide the Bodies,' every fourth notch says in bold, gigantical letters legible from a passing airplane, “GO BACK TO JAIL!” To keep his attention, I sort of idly move the wheel back an forth, plucking the little arrow a few knocks. Sometimes, I'll even absently drift toward my soap-on-a-rope poster during the PowerPoint presentations. Or after a good lengthy and comprehensive lecture on where pastrami sandwich theft'll get you, I'll show Midnight Express in 3-D followed by a pop quiz on why his picture is on the Turkish website I've been working on.
Moreover, there’s a big red button in the middle of my desk positioned directly between us. It’s not hooked up to anything, and we never talk about it ...but on the rare occasion I feel I'm 'losing him' -and the prize wheel doesn't work- I’ll sort of let my hands linger around this button. You know, like folding my hands near it? Or sometimes just lunging toward it while stretching during an improbably-abrupt, deep yawn? For another good "wake up call," I'll put a 5-pack of Bic lighters in the nearby dryer ... and every time one detonates I'll run in circles, screaming.
To say he is one ugly motherfucker is to be kind -I mean this guy fell off the Ugly Tree and hit every branch on the way down. Then he fell down into the Ugly Well, and continued on to bash against the Ugly Rocks and drown in the Ugly Water ... meh, you get the picture. But this isn't Barbarossa's main problem. What's really screwed up about this poor bastard is that he's not just tarded, but he is legally "retarded." This means Barbarossa will require more than one -and possibly numerous- untardings. So as his "parole officer," I've officially "Partitioned the Court" or something, and he will guard the pastrami sandwich for free until further notice as treatment. Remember: "Idle hands are the Devil's pork chop," and we have to distract the Devil from the pastrami sandwich at all costs.
While numerous scientists agree that nothing untards an ex con like the creation of bottomless Excel spreadsheets, many scientists also do not agree ... and as a scientist myself, I am disinclined to set those nerds straight good 'n proper this time: who wants Barbarossa -in the current frail state he is in- exposed to the trauma of seeing numerous scientists I have proven wrong immolating themselves on bunsen burners and impaling themselves on broken test tubes? Hm? In a rare moment of human compassion I have agreed to help Barbarossa along on his precarious road to Redemption, and steer him away from evil when possible; having solemnly taken charge of this clearly promising, impressionable lad's future, I cannot let that happen for his or her own sake.
But speaking of "charge," I have decided to make Barbarossa work a little in effort to knock out some of the Tard Therapy bill I'm going to send him eventually. Along with guarding the pastrami sandwich, Barbarossa will create a meticulous alpha-numeric catalogue of the Predator Press team's refrigerator contents, with particular emphasis on the expiration dates. And Team Predator Press perks won't stop at Barbarossa's expense either: because some of those pansies will have a taste for the more expensive and "exotic" (such as bathing several times a week, et cetera), Barbarossa will spearhead the formulation of a committee exclusively responsible for melding all those little soap bar leftovers together to make one a size of practical re-use.
-The tard will be oozing out of Barbarossa by the Playoffs!
Emergency Responder: Doctor Manhattan
I normally don’t hire comic book characters for the same reason I don’t hire women: the more they age, the more likely plastic is involved in an effort to keep those weird guys ogling them safely. But it starts with collagen injections and breast implants ... and the next thing you know, pow -she's full-on robot.
Indeed, the AMA had some initial concerns about Doctor Manhattan's medical credentials too. But what could possibly happen to guys playing football? It’s a game, man ... after the care and feeding of those guys, Doctor Manhattan will likely be totally bored. I was kinda thinking he could help me do some stuff like beat my high score on Centipede and screw AOL out of a few thousand more free hours anyway.
But you know what? Now that I think about it, I don't think I want this guy hanging around with his gizmo hangin out ... I mean his piece'd be all pokin the Centipede coin slots. Yuck!
Still, I think I’ll put him in charge of everything blue. Either that, or I'll make him audition for The Village People.
Haw! He'd be so pissed ...
(I think he's Catholic.)
Public Relations: Daisy the Curly Shark
Until this crazy “environmental” fad goes the way of bellbottoms, platform shoes and, well, good taste, no 2010 team will be complete without a 47 foot Carcharodon carcharias domesticus.
Rather than exploiting landfills, Daisy is an indispensable asset for disposing of worn-out old jockstraps, helmets, cheerleaders, and Brian Westbrook. Until we can get back to zealously destroying the Earth, this will be her primary function -second perhaps only to the disciplinary duty of punishing anyone who dare utter the word "punt" in my presence.
As you can see, my whole 2010 team operates in a cyclical fashion: Daisy keeps everyone motivated and mutually cooperative.
And what keeps Daisy motivated and mutually cooperative?
The thought of TarkenHawk the Cable Guy.
* Update: We at Predator Press regret to inform you that as of immediately after posting this, the pastrami sandwich was technically no longer with us.
[Editor's note] You done re-writing this thing yet? hehe
[Author's note] I worked on the Chris Wood interview for a month!