Are you ready for some football? I sure am! There is literally nothing more in this world I love more than organized professional sports. Why, just yesterday, I asked a friend if the World Series was over yet. (Spoiler alert: it hasn't even started.) So it should come as no surprise to anyone that not only am I in a fantasy football league, I'm straight up fucking dominating the NFL. True story! My team, The HoBags (obviously) is perched at or near the top of the roster, running my opponents into the ground. I am to Fantasy Football what Taylor Swift is to VMA's: all I do is win. I mean, granted there are like 85 weeks left of this shit and I will inevitably fall from grace immediately, but I'm really relishing my unexpected moment in the sun . I've become a sports maniac. You should hear my trash talk. I throw down major burns like: "I hope Tanya Harding hits all of your running backs in the knees," or "I hope your whole team shoots each other in the feet in a nightclub," or "I hope your team is like the beginning of 'We Are Marshall'...not the inspirational part in the end, with Matthew McConaughey, but the part in the beginning where the whole team dies in that horrible plane crash." Ugh. Definitely didn't learn everything I know about sports from Hollywood or Page Six. I should become the poster child for Title IX. It just makes no sense why chicks get such a bad rap when it comes to sports. How could dudes possibly find us irritating?
Speaking of dudes, the best part about Football season, aside from all the day-drinking, is obviously all of the eye candy.The "Fantasy" in Fantasy Football definitely stands for those of the deviant, sexual variety. I mean, just DUDES everywhere - t-shirted, Sunday-scruffed, Budweiser drinking DUDES. It's like, if you replaced each grain of salt in the ocean with a hot man (and an occaisonal slut wearing knee-socks and a football jersey with "The Situation" embroidered on the back) (go home, sluts!), and then put a bunch of TV's in that ocean and then dove into it on a Sunday afternoon. Obviously none of them are hitting on me, duh read this blog, but it sure makes for a lovely swim. (Someone get me my Pulitzer!)
So thanks to my devotion to sports, my love of bloody marys and my desire awkwardly stare at strange men, I found myself at a watering hole known as The Ainsworth this past Sunday, footballing it up. It's barely kick-off, when my friend Laura turns to the group: "Hey, isn't that Berger from Sex & The City? Over there, by the bar?" After a few moments of confusion - Wait...which dude?...where?...Berger's black now? - we spotted him leaning handsomely against the wall, black leather jacket, scruff, pockets full of post-it notes. Invigorated by being in such proximity to a C-list celebrity (sorry, Ron Livingston, you know it's true), we spent the remainder of the afternoon skeeving on him as he moved throughout the bar: "Why is he alone? Who do you think he's texting? Did you know his wife got to eff Don Draper? Do you think if I brought in a printer, he'd go outside and smash it with me?" Finally, ever the cool, jaded New Yorkers, we decided someone needed to interact with him, a task which, obviously, fell to me. Filled with multiple cocktails and a desire to seem "cool" and "natural" (two things I've never been), I choked under pressure and did the smoothest thing I could think of. I ran into him. Intentionally. And I said "Oh, sorry." And he said "no problem." And then................. I walked away.
And that's it. The end. Best story ever? Not even close. I may fail when it comes to"cool," "natural" human interaction, but at least I am a champ at managing imaginary football teams.
I hope you all win the Super Bowl and have to drive off in a Hyundai! Ya burnt!