10 Signs You're a Fantasy Football Jackass

Image via Complex Original

In a network full of clownish buffoons, ESPN's "Fantasy Expert" Matthew Berry is easily the most pathetic. At lunchtime on the Bristol campus, Kirk Herbstreit and Sage Steele clank martini glasses at the cool kids table while this guy wolfs down a ham and cheese sandwich by himself in a bathroom stall. 

In September of 2011, fantasy football related page views accounted for more than half of ESPN.com's overall traffic. As a consequence, the network gives this bozo more air time than Jon Gruden during football season.

If you're into music, maybe you're inspired by Jimi Hendrix. If you're a movie buff, maybe you admire Martin Scorsese. But if you're into fantasy football, Matthew Berry is your messiah and that's really fucking sad. Our hearts would break for you if you weren't such a jackass.

Let's talk about your team name for a second. We'll keep a fantasy football focus, but feel free to apply this to your 12-inch softball and pub trivia teams, too.

That Ben Roethlisberger rape joke isn't funny. Never was. And you stole it from an Internet meme. We're sure you have an awesome play on Reggie Bush's name, Danny Woodhead's too. Save it. Your knack for predictably alluding to sexual situations with players' last names is the type of genius you should charge for.

Before you go with "Show Me Your TDs" for the fifth straight year, consider, like, "The Wolves" or something. Everyone respects a classic, you'd be wise to take it back to the basics. 

If you're angry and about to storm the Complex office in an extra large, salsa stained Cam Newton jersey, relax. This is something that even the most steadfast fantasy fanatics can agree with us on—hurry the fuck up with your pick already!

The standard time allotment for a draft pick is two minutes. Multiply that by a dozen guys over 15 rounds and that's six full hours of watching cowards fold to the pressure of drafting a second defense. If it takes you more than 30 seconds to do a cost-benefit analysis of Antonio Brown receptions versus Mike Wallace touchdowns, maybe you're taking this thing a little too seriously.

Football is more or less a religion in this country. It doesn't matter if you're talking to Roger Goodell or Barbara Walters, pretty much every American can name the receiving corps for the Seattle Seahawks and give you a tactical means of ending the referee lockout. When you scoff like a prick when someone says they drafted Matt Ryan in the first round, understand that you look like B.J. Raji's jock smells—only more revolting.

Developing an expert knowledge of fantasy football is like constructing your own authentically detailed, true to scale Optimus Prime costume for Comic-Con. It's a lot of time and effort devoted to something that impresses no one and, if anything, provides an exact measurement for how pathetic your life has become.

Nothing turns grown men into whining, 13-year-old mall girls quite like league settings they don't agree with. If you find yourself losing sleep over return yards not being counted or bench lineups being too small, get off of your computer and go outside. Our government is bankrupt and there's, like, genocide and starving children and stuff. People have real problems, shut up.

There's nothing boyishly charming about joining "the league." You're more likely to get laid kicking puppies than you are by being into fantasy football. Ask any woman. You probably look down on those Magic: the Gathering freaks and World of Warcraft weirdos, but at least those guys know they're social pariahs. They don't go around bragging about their pitiful hobby.

Fantasy football guys make a production out of the draft day party, donning NFL jerseys like live action role players in velvet capes and Medieval Teutonics. Blast LARP kids all you want but at least they're getting some exercise out there in the woods and, occasionally, interacting with girls.

People who are particularly adept to performing well in fantasy football are usually the team manager types. The guys who spent more time in the junior high nurse's office than they did on the field. So, it's especially asinine to hear "now go get your shine box," from a cocky dude in your league who couldn't run a mile without vomiting on himself.

You realize you're not doing anything, right? Ray Lewis hurls insults at Mark Sanchez because he's a volatile pipe bomb of testosterone. He's 250 pounds and really pissed off. You check ESPN Alerts on your iPad and keep an eye on the waiver wire. There's a difference. He smashes grown men's faces in for a living. You work at Subway and cried at the end of Top Gun. 

Gone are the days of "us vs. them." Now it's "I need DeSean Jackson to gain 80 yards receiving, Michael Vick to throw two interceptions, Eli Manning to connect for three touchdowns—unless one is to to Hakeem Nicks—then I need him to throw at least two to Bear Pascoe." Wait, what? Is that fun? That was exhausting to write. It's insufferable to be around.

With an estimated 40 million Americans playing fantasy football, that tiresome anticipation of specific scenarios plays out every Sunday in living rooms across the country. So here we are, a man cave divided. And, with every trip to the red zone, an announcement of your scoring preference, "If Matt Forte punches this in, I'm a lock this week." Cool, bro. Thanks for ruining football.

Being a fantasy football league champion is like coming in first place at a funnel cake eating competition—technically you won something, but it's a bit embarrassing. Look, not everything we do is cool. If you need a reality check, peep some of the text messages you send your girlfriend or take a look at your iPhone's "Workout Mix" which, undoubtedly, includes "Wide Awake" by Katy Perry.

So, you're in a fantasy football league. It gives you a way to connect with the sport you love and, maybe at the end, win a little cash. No big deal. But if you're that jerk-off who, in April of the following year, still brings up the legendary Week 15 performance of Marshawn Lynch, or how "the haters" ripped you for taking Jimmy Graham in the third round, consider your life headed in a bad direction.

Look, do you really need another reason to cheer on other grown men who are younger and wealthier than you are? We don't know how many points Rob Gronkowski will score for your fake team, but he will definetly bang your real girlfriend. And, judging by that sausage stain on your ever-tightening Drew Brees jersey, she’d be right to cheat on you.

Nobody likes football more than us, but you pay for NFL stadiums and they charge you full price for preseason games. Don't let Roger Goodell turn you into a douchebag, too. The only power you have is to cut your whole team, go outside and enjoy the fall. We’re trying to help you.