It's Monday night. Time to cozy up on our awesome deteriorating sectional in the lower level of our bad ass split level and casually take in a foosball game between two teams I couldn't care less about. Entirely stress free, just enjoying the game and breaking into spontaneous "U.S.A." chants.
But wait! I'm playing my roommate this week in the uber-sports-fan-dork game of fantasy football. I'm up a meager five points going into tonight's game, all of my guys have already played, and my opponent has a decent-at-best receiver left. He could get 10 points, he could get 0. He needs to get 6 to beat me. A touchdown does it. 60 yards does it. So instead of dozing off with Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie crumbs (yeah I eat the sprinkles first) all over my face and shirt on my grandpa's old recliner, I'm alert. And I'm scared.
It's like someone told me before the game "Hey man, sometime in the next three hours, without warning, Toby Maguire is gonna punch you in the stomach. (It would hurt more because Spidey caught you off guard, but it wouldn't be a lingering pain like, say, a sucker punch from a Jon Hamm or this guy. I'd get over it.)
But it's entirely possible this punch isn't coming. I could win! Team "Dr. Kenneth Noisewater" could move to a league-leading 2-1! Or not. Dammit. All I know is a prize pool of over $300 and, more importantly, this trophy are up for grabs. And nothing, NOTHING!, would be more satisfying than winning that damn throphy. But until then I'll be here rooting against Muhsin Muhammad and watching my back. Somewhere Toby Maguire is hiding, ready to strike.
Sorry you didn't book Mugatu's Derelicte campaign,
Colin
(UPDATE: I was up 1 point in the last minute of the game. Muhammad had 44 yards, needed 6 more for a tie. And he gets exactly 6 in the second to last play of the game. We tied. I want to puke.)
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