Three week ago, you were poised to ascend to the top of the Yahoo Fantasy Football Goomba League 2010 world. Your team, FUTURESEX/CUMSOUNDS, fell the undefeated Rushin Roulette, attained the points lead, and moved into second place out of fourteen teams. The cataclysmic loss of your second pick Ryan Grant was offset wondrously by Peyton Manning’s output and a prescient free agent pickup of Brandon Lloyd. Hakeem Nicks was producing acres beyond expectations. Antonio Gates could outTE four TEs. Even the insubstantial receiving core you uprooted from the quagmire of the Jacksonville Jaguars was pantomiming football. Plump rays of sun coated your team’s foreseeable future in a sublime luminescence.
Over the four interim weeks, FS/CS has sic transited the everliving life out of its gloria. At 5-5, your team has to win-out to barely make the playoffs. The points lead may as well be in a tangential universe. Peyton has been lackluster in even the most favorable of match-ups. Your running backs essentially running backwards. Yet, you cling feebly to the unspooling strands of your hope belly-shirt (formerly your hope sweater). The teams FS/CS has left to face are a combined 12-18. Despite reason, logic, and how your past teams (dengs voodoo midget, Sentient Dildo, NARFLE THE GARTHOK) have infamously underperformed in the playoffs, a microscopic but megaphoned voice is propagandizing the belief from your mind’s dais.
This voice has had deleterious effects on your life. Its wispy, coercive tone underlies every lottery ticket purchased, every rouletted 2nd 12 and red light run. For twenty-three years you’ve been played the most foolish of fools by said voice, but when you win the Powerball (and you have to be due by now you just have to statistics can’t evaluate luck your luck isn’t evaluable) you’ll be the one guffawing.
Of course, no you won’t. FUTURESEX/CUMSOUNDS will fade into an obscurity of clingy, inch-thick shadows. 2nd 12 will never hit. You’ll run a random red at a ridiculous rpm as a MACK truck runs a perpendicular red and ushers you to mangled metal oblivion, or a cop will force red-blue-red-blue flashers into your rearview, pull you over, and he’ll be coarse verbally towards you and the dreadful simulacrum of your driver’s license photo, and as he surveys the hasid beard beard and mop-head, as he scribbles your fate in slanted, blunt cursive, you’ll be thinking: this means they won’t catch me again for years, decades even, if they ever catch me at all, and you’ll drive away, speeding slightly less than normal.
You’re hopeless in your hoping.