The 2024 Season, or, The commissioner strikes back
The Commish awakens.
That sham of a 2023 season is in the books. And what a shit book it was! Not only did everyone’s favorite hero, your fearless and ever-loving Commish, NOT win the title, he barely scraped by in the Ultimate Loser’s Tickle Fight against Brandon. All the while, his novice wife made it all the way to the Shampionship against his far more diabolical brother, Taylor. I blame myself. No. No I don’t. I blame all of you jerks for beating me!
So, Taylor claimed his second Shampionship, becoming the second repeat champ after Luke—yawn. Luke, of course, broke his “every other year” winning streak with a disaster of a season on par with Franz von Papen thinking he could “tame the tiger” when inviting a certain Jew-hatin’ failed art student to become Chancellor of Germany in 1933. Good job, Luke. I blame the current Gaza situation on you. It’s no coincidence you can’t spell Hamas without Sham.
That Shampionship was—as previously mentioned—against the formidable Dark Manders, coming out of nowhere to recreate General Sherman’s march to the sea, burning the rest of our hopes to the ground on the way. It’s no wonder Atlanta was the laughing stock of the NFC South this year. Was it beginner’s luck? Was it a disconnect from an emotional predisposition toward certain players, setting a lineup purely based on statistics and not how our gut (or the plethora of shit fantasy podcasts) tells us? You can only get burned by Joe Mixon so many times before you say fuck that dude forever. Will she exact her revenge this season? No. This story isn’t about her. It’s not time for Dark Manders to strike back—it’s Commish time, baby!
Now, the Amanda previously known as Amanda Shapland (congrats on the wedding and stuff) understands and recognizes just how invalid this Shampionship was. So much so, that she has refused to relinquish the trophy, clinging to it like Donald Trump and a shit joke about Hannibal Lecter—just give it up already, you old convicted felon and known rapist. When I last asked her about it, she said—and I quote: “Taylor is never getting this trophy. Fuck that fraud.” Pretty harsh words from our 2022 co-champ. But current possession of the trophy or not, Taylor is charged with the enviable task of selecting our draft order.
With training camps under way, and the season creeping ever closer, the 2024 draft is right around the corner. Since Taylor has been looser with his duties than a frat boy in a Taco Bell bathroom stall—loose duties, get it? It’s a poop joke—I have decided to lend him some of my fraternal genius.
Idea 1: Justin gets to draft 1st, 2nd, and 3rd. I’ll make up for it by not drafting again until the 5th round. I’m LOSING a draft pick. That seems fair. The rest of you can draft wherever the fuck you want.
Idea 2: We take our talents to Top Golf and let the Gods of Golf and random chance (come on, it’s not possible to be good at golf) decide the order for us.
Idea 3: Something involving the Olympics. I don’t know. Pick random countries and track medal counts?
Now, those are all genius ideas. I’m personally fond of the first idea. If anything, it’s unfair to me. You guys get so many more picks! Taylor, as the Torah dictates, gets to decide his own legally-permissible draft selection process. But only a fool ignores his wisest advisor. Whatever he decides, it’s time to shirk your responsibilities elsewhere and shift that focus to the only thing that matters: getting your ass kicked in fantasy football.
Cheers, jerks!
-J
