Commentary from the Edge: Special Edition

Commentary from the Edge: Special Edition


Commentary from the Edge: Special Edition


I’ve got serious problems with a lot of you people. And by you people I mean the money-crazed over proliferation of product, cash grubbing, golden goose killers at the NFL headquarters.

Let’s be clear here. I’m a capitalist. I’m all for making money. I quit writing my weekly column so I could concentrate on making money. I am as greedy a capitalist pig as the next guy. I’ve soaked old ladies before and not even blinked. Slept like a baby. Just being honest here. (If you are already offended you might want to cut off right here and check out the player rankings again.)

Yes, we all love the Monday night game. One last morsel after a full meal on Sunday. A weaning shot of methadone for our heroin like football addiction.

Of course this assumes we have a decent match-up on the field and not one of the many drub-fests prime time football has become. And this is really the issue here. How many classic Thursday night games do you recall? Scanning , scanning…I do think there was one close exciting Thursday night game this season. One out of seven. You get kicked out of Instructional league with a batting average like that. .Consistently dreadful football. That is what I recall.

It all started with the third game on Thanksgiving. Millions of alcohol and Tryptophan traumatized people, in a coma on the couch, unwilling or unable to change the channel to see what kind of crap TV Land is calling entertainment these days.

And lo’ and behold the network execs mistook that for people actually watching the games. And so you get what we have now. 22 men that were just run over by freight trains a few days ago asked to go out and “give it all” under far from optimum conditions, for the good of the almighty absurdly overpriced television contract.

That is what people want to see. Second rate crap. It must be true, look at reality TV. As a country we will stand for virtually any kind of indignation the entertainment business wishes to jam up our collective asses. (See, I warned you)

But one thought. Oh mighty and powerful NFL. If we can assume that gamblers and fantasy football players are at the core of your audience. And let’s face it, we are. Why would we want to alienate that group of individuals? Monday night football was always a bit of a complication for our hobby. Sunday night as well. But with the added responsibility of Thursday night football, the whole process is laborious.

When a hobby becomes “job-like” it ceases to become a hobby. Thus the fun is diminished.

No, I can’t take a break after waivers run, and let my team stew in my subconscious. Nope. That lineup needs to be tuned before Thursday. Have someone you might want to start Sunday, but his injury has him in question? And his replacement on your bench is playing Thursday night? Well, the decision was just made for you, wasn’t it. Thank you NFL. Like I need you running my life further.

To that end, I cut ties with Sunday Ticket this season. I decided I could live with Red Zone channel only. But I have to tell you. Early report card, Siciliano has got it all over Hansen in the host competition.

Hansen has committed the ultimate sin of letting me see more than a second of a commercial on multiple occasions this season, including about a 10 second breach last weekend that sent the typical wave of abusive language flying out into the alleys of my neighborhood. Neighbors like that. See what you did Scott Hansen? A commercial? Really? I believe Brandon Marshall would call that unacceptable. Unacceptable, unacceptable, and just plain unacceptable.

But to be honest, at this point I am just glad the season actually started after a month of accusations and litigations. That was completely and totally unacceptable. 

I only drafted two teams this year, both in the FFPC format online tournament. I’ll be damned if I didn’t draw the #1 and #5 picks. Both teams are 5-2 but they are vastly different. One team is loaded up and looking like a serious contender. Top of the standings, points and wins. Earning it. Living the dream.

My other team is an abomination. An inexplicable recipient of every possible good break at can be heaped on this garbage scowl of a team. The latest adventure saw me sitting at 126 points with my opponent needing a whopping 34.5 points from Peyton Manning on Sunday night football. I spent the night bracing for the inevitable grim end to an unlikely run.

But of course the ’Niners refusal to even put up their fists in this Manning mashing led to the merciful early 4th quarter baseball cap version of Manning. With a whole quarter and 55 passing yards left to spare. My crappy little team was spared yet again.

I can only imagine the agony inflicted on my opponent, as he watched whoever that backup QB for Denver is, running excitedly out onto the field. Surely disbelieving that he too had fell victim to the team starting Bishop Sankey at running back. Ouch. Seriously? Bet that guy’s neighborhood got an earful of “fantasy team gone wrong.”

But I figure it is like anything else. I have been the hard luck king in my fantasy career. I have scored my lowest point total of the season against the crappiest team, dooming my playoff aspirations countless times.

I have lost to opponents stupid enough to only bench Cam Newton when he goes off for 35 points. I have felt the sting of losing to losers. I have known the testicular pain that it brings. It makes a ripping, tearing sound like Velcro. It’s nice I can pay it forward. Oprah would be proud.

The truly tragic part is that I still play the teams directly above and tied with me for wins. And they play each other. It is conceivable I can make the 4 team playoff with a points total near the bottom of the league. All I have to do is inflict unlikely pain for 4 more weeks in a row. I’m considering changing the name of the team to “The New Deal” I wonder if anybody will get that. Probably not. Take that you capitalist pigs.

For what it’s worth when I drafted the first team (the kick-ass team) I only intended to draft one team. I targeted the guys I really wanted, (practice what you preach) and generally got them. Spent the draft thinking other people probably thought I was paying too much. Lamar Miller at 6:1? Absurd.

My other team I spent grabbing “would be” bargains starting with Jamaal Charles with the 5th pick. I came out of that draft just sure I had a champion. And it might be. But it would be one ugly-ass champ. Okay, so it will either be “The New Deal” or “Ugly Ass Champ.” Tough call.

Ladainian Tomlinson is coming along nicely as a talking head. He is almost stringing complete sentences together and is at times coherent. That is the best I can tell, I still have to turn the channel after 10 seconds, because even that insipid Bacon Bowl commercial is more palatable than the clumsy “why in the hell are you doing this to us” second coming of LT.

Why do people want to do things they suck at? I mean, yeah, okay, but who else would write this column? That non-withstanding I am simply amazed that athletes with nothing to offer other than their name insist on trudging through the role of “analyst” with all the grace of that fat bastard mayor that likes the coke and the hookers. (allegedly)

I simply have no interest in anything Ray Lewis has to say. Still. And more than ever. His presence on the set keeps the remote in my hand, and when he spends two minutes passionately trying to make some obvious point I can barely decipher anyway, I am back to the Bacon Bowl commercial. The bad part is he has actually “progressed” and will soon be on par with Steve Young’s silver tongued schtick. And obviously ESPN thinks that is good enough. Intimidation. It must work even after you take off the pads. 

Why are you doing this to us Ray and LT? What did we ever do but love you? But now you are like the dinner guest that has stayed long past his welcome, I am ready to bang the old lady and catch some Z’s, and there you are yammering on and on with your “smart glasses” totally inadequate at masking the density. Oh, and I hate your pointy shoes too. Makes my feet hurt just looking at those damn torture chambers.

Okay, so I have racked up Hansen, the greedy league bastards who have decided I need to get up and set my lineup first thing on a hangover for a 9 freaking 30 ET game Sunday morning in god knows where, my ugly ass fantasy team, and people doing jobs they suck at Seems like a pretty full meal. How about some desert?

Misery Index

10) Rams: Okay, so you pulled out all the stops – executed perfectly. You told the bully his shoelaces were untied, he looked down and you decked him. That was awesome. But damn I would hate to be in your shoes when he catches you alone on his street-corner.  

9) Bears: Are you like me and Brandon Marshall, and find Jay Cuter unacceptable? Seriously, I just have this feeling, and it has always gnawed at me, that Jay Cutler simply doesn’t give a shit. The “anti-Manning” if you will? I’m afraid that might just be the problem here. Great radio show though I hear…

8) Seahawks: That was quite a weak week. First you punked yourselves, sending the only thing standing between Marshawn and 8 man fronts off to New York for a handful of magic beans, then the Rams punked you multiple times while you stumbled around the field lost in the haze like Ladainian Tomlinson in front of a television camera. Not a good look.

7) 49ers: Other than the wife beating (allegedly), the massive injuries, reports of a broken locker room, and suddenly finding yourself the Arizona Cardinals divisional bitch all is well. And coach, (allegedly) challenging Manning’s arm strength against your own during a free agent meeting rubbed Peyton the wrong way, as he spanked your ass in front of a national television audience. The good news here is that the head coaches’ bizarre tormented facial contortions are at long last justified, so he doesn’t actually appear quite as insane these days.

6) Vikings: Just in case he doesn’t pan out, and I don’t talk to you for a while, keep this in your hip pocket. Teddy Bilgewater. Huh? Huh? Oh, some of you don’t know what bilge water is? Never mind then. I’m sure he will be just fine anyway. These Viking QBs always are.

5) Redskins: Oh sure, I could sit here and rag on Cousins and his supporters, but considering I just dropped him myself week before last, that would be a tad hypocritical. Let’s all just move on. My only real concern here is a certain expensive tight end draft pick that spent the first third of the fantasy season anchoring my bench injured, now is back, but playing a game of musical quarterbacks. On the horizon is RGIII and his rusty accuracy. Hmm. Let’s see. An injury prone tight end and an already inaccurate quarterback coming off a long injury. Scary. Almost as scary as living in a country where people try to tell you what you can or can’t call yourself.

4) Jaguars: Well here we are again. Different season. Different faces. Same old Saguars. But at least Bortles is offering a more fresh and exciting brand of losing. So that’s nice for them. So is it okay to drop Allen Hurns yet?

3) Buccaneers: Mike Glennon is my backup quarterback on my (allegedly) badass team. Why? Because he only cost a dollar and he wasn’t Kirk Cousins. Philip Rivers has a bye in what could be a critical week 10. Yeah. I heard the Vincent Jackson trade rumors. And Doug Martin is a slug. But I’m not concerned. Not concerned at all. Nope.

2) Jets: Well, I have to give you credit. It took you eons but you finally figured out you needed an offensive weapon that opposing teams had to actually scheme for. Congratulations. As for Harvin, not sure if it is rampant BO, rampant BS, or rampant disdain for anybody in your presence, but you might want to hang on tight here. Flame out of this hell-hole and you may never be heard from again. Oh, and take Rex Ryan with you when you go……wait…..redundant thought..…never mind.

1) Raiders: How many times have we seen it with the Raiders? Andre Holmes was the latest edition. He blows up. Everybody risks life and limb to get him in their starting lineup, and instead it’s the old flaming bag of dog poo on the front porch, leaving our fantasy teams quite messy and smelly. Those Raiders. They don’t call it the Black Hole for nothing.


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