Present Imperfect

He Hate Me | August 13, 2007

I like football. The throwing-catching-running-and-tackling kind. Rugby with helmets. Chess with testosterone.

This is a difficult thing for many of my friends to reconcile. I am not a girly girl. But I am a girl. Which means, by all rights, I should not give a crap what quarterback rushed for 1,039 yards last season, who fractured his fibula, who got arrested for illegal dogfighting, or who’s being sued for giving someone herpes. (Interestingly, only one player that I know of has accomplished all of these feats, and his real name is not Ron Mexico.)

If I were just watching football on TV, I probably would give less of a crap about these things. However, I play fantasy football. Which means I have to pretend that real-life football guys play on an imaginary team that I own. For money. Only they don’t listen to me no matter how much I yell at them. This makes yelling at other people whose real-life football guys can’t hear them pretty much the best part of fantasy football.

Since this blog is meant to be at least peripherally related to the written word, I should probably try and do a better job of linking language with fantasy football. But I can’t. Other than the yelling.

What I can do is fulfill my promise to the herd of randy, unwashed armchair quarterbacks with whom I have consented to play in my second fantasy football league this season and ask if there are any other women who would like to join our league. Previous fantasy football experience is required, and you can apply for the job by sending me an email with the subject line “Boys Are Smelly.”