>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Rebello
January 25, 2004

Before the column, a big Hell Yeah to the New England Patriots going back to the Super Bowl for the second time in three years! Apparently, they will play some team from Carolina. And to all those people who spent all the other week telling me how great Peyton Manning is, bugger off.

I am not a nerd. At least I don't think so. I work out. I drink. I masturbate to things not written by JRR Tolkien. But there is one obsession I have that I am ashamed of, besides “Boy Meets World” and Madden 2004. And that is fantasy sports.

I started fantasy sports just two years ago, it's amazing. Of course, my first team sucked ass because I piled on players from my beloved Red Sox during a season when every player was either hurt, or forgot how to play baseball. I'm not kidding. Last year, I led my team to a thrilling fantasy championship over my roommate Mark, with a case of beer on the line. What started as a friendly game involving friends, roommates, and brothers descended into a sick and obsessive hatred of each other. If someone made a bad pickup (like JD Drew or anyone on the Tigers), they were brought to tears by a virtual lynch mob of insults.

I went through an emotional rollercoaster not seen since The Crying Game with two of my players; Alfonso Soriano, the brilliant Yankees second basemen, was one. On the one hand, he was a solid hitter and base runner. On the other hand, I had to root for a Yankee, which is like going out for beers with one of Hitler's stepchildren. Then there was Preston Wilson, from Colorado. I swear every night he'd strike out 14 times then have like 123 RBIS one night. No exaggeration. I might as well have drafted Jekyll and Hyde.

I also must not forget “The Trade,” a 10-player megadeal which very well might have sent Peter Gammons' pacemaker screaming across the room, in which my business and baseball skills destroyed my roommate Brian and his team. When it went through, I tried to imagine the press conference for such a trade, and spent the afternoon grinning like a molester at Chuck E. Cheese.

When I finally won my championship, I was working at the Globe, and had to reduce my celebration to simply buying two packs of Mint-a-Burst and passing out in the company bathroom.

I realize only a few of you understand this column and even fewer care, but I needed a sports related column, so kiss my ass. To all my critics, if you don't like my shit, and would prefer inane ramblings by some ninny with a thesaurus, go fart around in the Maddox site. (I really hate Maddox, so stop comparing him to me. The man just wrote an entire column explaining his hatred of Garfield. Anyone who doesn't like Garfield deserves anal leakage of the worst kind.)

To conclude this mess of a column, if anyone would like to buy me a Jake Delhomme European Football jersey so I may hang it in effigy, I would write an entire column in your honor. I'm not joking. Go Pats!

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