They say prostitution is the world’s oldest profession, and if that’s true, Dallas Clark, kindly consider yourself a proprietor of the trade, because again I’ve plunked down money in a fantasy football league, and once again you’ve fucked me like I was a woozy Osaka cheerleader in a first-class rail car. God damn you Dallas Clark. When you make your list of goals before the season starts, where exactly do you rank “Fuck Punter At Every Conceivable Turn?” First? Second?

Year after year, my fantasy teams die by some cheapassed shiteating slant route that you convert for first down after first down. Typical white guy, standing around in the seam while everyone else is running actual routes or pass blocking. You never work for that shit; you just wait for that Sam linebacker to blitz and then wait for the ball. And you’re not even a real tight end. How can you help on pass pro while you’re lined up in the slot, drinking your piña colada and letting that Indiana breeze blow through your earholes. Do some of the dirty work, asshole. You make me sick. 

But this year, I thought I’d learned my lesson, Dallas Clark. I thought I had finally learned when to tap out, to call a spade a spade and join your cause. I took you in my KSK Keeper League. It was for value, granted, but I still took you over Vernon Davis and some other guy. I think. I was ready to leave that other world behind and make a commitment to you.

And how did you repay me?

You reinvented the Fuck You Wheel and got injured. That’s what makes you such a worthy opponent; you invent new ways to destroy people’s hopes and dreams. And in doing so, you curled your fingers into a veritable fist and plunged that fist squarely into my butthole, robbing me of a win against Flubby and pretty much all the dignity I’ve ever had. You’re like that hot girl in high school that wanted to go out with me right after she had her face burned off in a steel mill. That’s all you are, Dallas Clark: the no-longer-hot hot chick. Just stick a tire iron in your ass and jump in front of a moving cement truck.

And please hurry back to the field! I need you!

It’s time you and I had a man-to-man talk, Jamal Lewis. You’ve been on my fantasy team for quite some time now, Jamal. We’ve had our ups and downs since I took you in 2005, even after you went to jail for four weeks the previous season on what was technically setting up a drug deal. I knew you were a hard, downhill runner, which is odd because I always thought the football field was a relatively level structure. But I digress.

Jamal, don’t you fuck me in the ass like you did in 2005. I had the number one pick going into that draft. Did I run off with Corey Dillon or Curtis Martin, motherfucker? Hell, no. I stood by your broken-down ass because I FUCKING BELIEVED IN YOU. And how was I rewarded for my undying faith? Three shitty little touchdowns. And way to give me that one 100-yard game on the last week of our season. That really solidified my 1-11 finish. Cocksucker.

And here we are again. Did you think I was going to throw myself onto Michael Turner like some floozy? Shit, no. EVERYONE on the Browns’ offense is ranked at or near the top five in their respective positions–except for you. You turn 29 this season. You run behind the best line in the league. I KNOW you have another 1,200-yard season in you, you big fucking loser. You can do it, buddy!