Last year, I won 2 fantasy football leagues, so I can share with guaranteed ways to win your league and have millions of dollars (or maybe $50 if you’re in a poor person league) at your disposal. Never mind that I was in four leagues total last year, that’s not important.
How does fantasy football work? You get together with a bunch of people, drink beer, eat cheese products or wings, and pick individual players you think will put up huge statistics during the NFL season. No matter what, everyone leaving is convinced they should be a GM in the NFL afterwards and much trash talk is tossed around. Then you “play” other people head to head weekly, most points wins. Here’s how to achieve such fame and fortune as me –
1) Have no one on your team get hurt. This is easy, you just need to learn dark occult rituals and possibly sell your soul to Satan. If you can’t do this, don’t worry, no one ever gets hurt in the NFL, except your first round pick.
2) Hope the majority of your draft rivals get drunk and start picking players from their favorite teams instead of good players. I was in a league where a guy only picked Bengals, ex-Buckeyes and white wide receivers. He got last place. Sorry, Ed McCaffrey.
3) Pray your best players aren’t on good teams at the end of the season. In the real NFL, the teams that are locked into the playoffs sit their good players, showing more regard for winning the Super Bowl than your fantasy football win! The nerve!
4) Don’t draft all the same position. I was in a league where a guy picked six quarterbacks…only one can play at a time. He didn’t do very well. Yes, believe it or not, a key to winning is having players that can actually play.
5) Be lucky. There is no formula to win that beats random BS luck. Last year, I would have lost one league in the finals, but AJ Green got hurt in the final game on Monday night and I barely pulled out a win. I had posted on Facebook earlier that day that I would give $ to anyone that hit him with a truck. I either have voodoo power or yet another log on my fire in hell. Probably the latter.
Follow these simple rules, get your wife’s permission to play, and enjoy fantasy football like a man!
“Hey Chris, what’s it like being a dad?” It’s pretty awesome, especially the six or seven minutes a day my daughter is not eating or sleeping and I get to read to her.
For any new fathers to be, here’s some tips and tricks I learned:
Babies scream for three reasons. 1) Feed me bitch. 2) Change me bitch. 3) Hold me bitch, then feed me again. Our daughter will cry, then an eye drop of breastmilk later, she’s out like your drunk uncle on Christmas. The change is fascinating and terrifying.
SLEEP WHEN YOU CAN. “Gee, I think I could wash my car and…” SLEEEEEEPPPPP!!!! “I really would like to check out the game and perhaps…” SLEEEEPPPPP!!!! You get it. I actually fell asleep twice typing this blog.
Remember when you used to play drinking games like Asshole and you were the beer bitch, fetching everyone’s drinks? Dust off those skills, my friends! Formula, bottles, grocery goods, binkies, laundry, trash, diapers – you will amazed that a nine pound baby consumes more total material than a Golden Corral full of 15 year old boys.
You actually have to wash your hands now. Not just the ol’ flick under the running water. Soap and hot water and the whole mess. Not that I didn’t wash my hands before, but now everything I touch feels like it’s got more bacteria than a swamp in July.
Finally, be nice to momma. She sleeps less than you, plus has to have her nipples whittled down like they’ve been hit by a belt sander. Let’s face it, too – she actually knows stuff about babies. I would be playing 80’s hair metal ballads to calm my daughter down (Skid Row can soothe the wildest beast), trying to give her chocolate milk because it’s cheaper and tastes better than Similac (I assume, never had Similac) and rotate two onesies with filthy sayings on them. My wife wakes up if a mouse sneezes in Iowa to check on the baby. She forgets to eat because she’s worried our daughter didn’t get that extra tenth of an ounce. If there’s a mom of the year contest, my wife is in the running after only three weeks.
I got to do a casino comedy show recently; my third, if you count the first one. I’ll get to that later. No show is the same, but casino shows are all over the place in terms of where they are held. This one was in the center bar. The drawback was there are about, oh, 1400 slot machines with lights and sounds (give or take – I’m probably way short). The good thing was that everyone going to the bar got to check out the show, plus the seating area was set up well and the sound system was great. Having done shows with bad sound, you can put a panther on stage and I’d rather have that than a shitty microphone.
The show went well, although my favorite part was getting to go through the employees’ entrance. It was like Ocean’s 11, getting to see the training rooms and kitchens. Well, Ocean’s 11 if instead of George Clooney you got me, nothing was stolen and I looked shady enough that two security officers escorted me into the room. It was nothing like Ocean’s 11.
The last casino show I did before this was great, until I went to check into my room and the smug guy behind the desk said, “I’m sorry sir, we don’t let the talent stay in our hotel.” You son of a bitch. In fairness, I was concocting a plan to get my dog into the hotel when no one was looking. The Knights Inn didn’t care as much. The first one was a “guest set,” which to the lay person means “More important comic getting paid needs a ride and convinces idiot new comic to drive and do time for nothing.” Ah, show business.
I went to get a physical for the first time in about ten years. I hadn’t seen my doctor in so long, they kicked me out and tried to make me register as a new patient. Whatever, I signed up with my wife’s care provider. Not the OB/GYN. My lady parts are sound.
I was filling out the paperwork and the secretary asked me which Chris Coen I was, as there were two addresses. “I moved. That’s my old address. I have no idea how you have it…but it’s me.” She seemed confused, as though no one had ever moved before in their entire customer database. Off to a good start.
I was filling out the new patient info when I got to sex. The girl at Babies R Us called me ma’am the night before and I just got an email from the Honest Company about organic tampons, so there’s that. I looked it over. “Male.” OK. “Female.” OK. “Transgender.” OK, we’ve got them all covered. No, there’s one more. “Unknown.” Now I’m really thrown askew. I expected a “Decline to answer” or fill in the blank option, but not unknown. If it means I don’t have to get the ol’ prostate checked, unknown it is.
During the checkup we got to the inevitable hernia check. Right before I had to drop the drawers and cough, my new doctor, a woman, asked if I needed a chaperone or assistant. What’s that? Apparently in order to avoid a sexual harassment case, they can bring in the same gender. Yes, if I’m uncomfortable with a woman feeling me up, the solution sounds like bring some brutish man doctor to stare at me while you do it. No thanks, I’ll take my chances with you, doc.
I was in good shape, or at least subpar like every other fat American, so I got out of there. It is my goal to not go back until 2025, so I need to start shopping online for a bubble or cyborg parts. Luckily, alcohol preserves things, so I will probably live forever if I keep drinking.
(I’m a huge fan of Poe, so I was inspired to try my own personal version. Enjoy.)
Captain’s Log. Date? Unsure. Time? Early. Much too early.
Screams! Screams, like the sentries of hell’s gate, penetrate my slumber. It can only mean one thing. The vampiric cherub demands to be sated again. Since this creature emerged from my wife not even two weeks ago, it has been sucking her life force dry. I mustered up my resolve and peeked into the galley. It has begun again. I pray the monster finds no taste for me; I can see my wife struggling to stay awake. Surely she cannot remain like this, weakened from the dark magic. Like a wildfire in a dry forest, the small, yet formidable invader consumes, never satisfied.
Incredibly, the attack abates and my wife retreats, leaving me to my own devices against this puppetmaster. Each cry and grunt makes the entire crew dance to her whims and wishes. For the first time in nearly a dozen tries, my efforts win the struggle and it sleeps. Exhausted, I contemplate celebrating with my crew around a keg of grog…but they lay in deep and comatose states, wiped out from the ordeal. I closed my eyes to thank the Creator for this victory, but the will of the Fates is cruel. My guard down, a sound emerges from Stygian depths! It was not defeated, but rather, brewing up a foul and noxious elixir so formidable it breaches both the inner and outer defenses! Our finest engineers’ work is laid to waste as the mustard poison stains and soils everything it touches. The screams! Screams again penetrate my mind and my wife, unable to resist the siren’s call, is forced to do this little one’s bidding. Will the cycle of horror cease? I am cast into the lower decks to scrub all signs of the assault from my breeches, but the stain remains. Who knows what lies in wait at high noon. I fear we will not survive this day.
I don’t really like hospitals. After a baby is born, you’re stuck in one for a few. I realized after midnight the night our daughter was born, my wife hadn’t eaten since an apple 27 hours earlier (unless you count those very filling ice chips) and I forgot a pillow and blanket. I ran home and then snagged Taco Bell for her. I had to be the only sober person there at 1 am on a Tuesday.
The worst thing about post pregnancy isn’t the nurses or staff, it’s the fact they are in the damn room every seven minutes. Nurses, housekeeping, doctors, admin staff, the lady that gets the food, nurses for the mom, lactation consultants, vaginologists…OK, I may have made that last one up. “Make sure you rest. Get some sleep. You need sleep. That’s why I’ll be back in four minutes to check on you and wake you up.” One of my favorites was a head nurse that came in. “Here’s the important paperwork that I need to go over with you both.” OK, let ‘er rip. “First…Oh! My phone. I’ll be right back!” She never came back and we realized the packet was full of questions to ask before you get discharged. Terrific!
I also got to change my first diaper. Some people were shocked. Well, when I was in my 20’s, I sure didn’t volunteer to change other people’s kids soiled britches. I’m not a fan of poop or having to register when I move. It was pretty easy, until Gracie decided to kick like a mule and plant her entire foot into a soft pile of meconium. That’s the dark poo that reminds you of the fourth day of Spring Break in college hangover dark poo. I got it and immediately started googling “Potty Train your two day old.” Hint: It can’t be done. Needless to say, after the rotation door of medical staff, the general feeling of being cooped up and the lack of quality sleep made us want to home pretty badly – like Andy from Shawshank Redemption crawling through a sewer pipe desperate to get out. Mercifully, they let us out through the door just 44 hours after the grand arrival. Good, I’m too fat to fit in the pipe anyways.