Outside, the November wind blows cold under the gunmetal grey skies. Whipping up leaves and tearing through corners and crevasses, it howls and mourns distinctly through the windows,
In a reflexive move to block out the haunting sounds, I flip my trench coat collar up as if it were cold. Sighing in resolve, I return to my desk and start poring over the Week 9 projections.
But the taunting is as inescapable as it is relentless.
“Silence!” I shriek, face alight in the cool, lifeless blue of my computer screen. “What do you know about hair, except how to screw it up? And where were you when I was trying to fly all those kites!?”
Still, my mighty eyebrows furrow as I realize there’s no escaping the truth. Facts are facts: that milk has gotta be rancid by now. Why do I always buy it by the gallon? I only use it for cooking. But a half gallon of milk is only a dollar less than a gallon. And how do I know about the Christopher Columbus thing for sure? I'm sure as hell not going to Indianapolis. Do you know what it's like going around the Cape of Good Hope at this time of year?
I scroll down RF's Week 9 lineup.
Brandon Lloyd. Sidney Rice. Lesean McCoy.
-Billy fucking Cundiff!
There’s no getting around it. I’ve only got one chance this week.
I invented this after RF won the whole HBFFL enchilada last year: one line goes to the game, and another other goes to the TV. Then you plug in an ant. (That plug doesn’t really do anything ... I just hate ants.)