Fantasy Football: A Female’s Perspective


It’s that time of year again, when regular season football is underway, as is the social phenomenon known as fantasy football. For those of you living under a rock, fantasy football is where a person, usually someone overly obsessed with fantasy sports so much so that they regularly listen to podcasts on the subject, invites you to join a league where you draft some players, play against the other people in your league and some money is usually involved. I realize I’m doing a piss poor job of explaining this, but that’s the beauty of fantasy football. It requires little to no understanding of what the fuck is going on.

Now, if these “league commissioners” are struggling to find enough men to join the league, they will very reluctantly resort to ladies. (Disclaimer: I know a lot of ladies who know their shit when it comes to football. I apologize in advance for giving women a terrible rep in the “giving a shit about sports” arena.)

Once you’ve received the prestigious invitation to join a fantasy football league, you have a draft, either live or by yourself in front of a computer. They both have their pros and cons. Live is fun because it’s with a group of people and copious amounts of Michelob Ultra are involved. But if you’re a lady who knows jack shit about football (Hi, my name is Cass), then this type of situation might get you roasted once or twice. The first time being when you choose a backup defense in the 6th round just to be safe, the second when you choose a backup kicker in the 7th, just to be even safer. But that’s neither here nor there. Moving on.

The second draft option is nice, because you can still have copious amounts of Michelob Ultra, only this time it’s by yourself in front of a computer screen, and people are making their picks so quick that they don’t have time to roast you when you choose your Quarterback based on level of attractiveness (I’m looking at you, A-Rod). It doesn’t hurt that the hottest QB in the NFL also happens to be the #1 QB.

Now you’ve got your dream team which you’ve taken the liberty of ranking based on how perfect their bubble butts look in their football capri yoga pants (you don’t actually know the word for those, but let’s just call them what they are). Now it’s game time.

The good thing about fantasy sports, is you can know literally nothing about the sport and still do well. Even during the draft, each player is ranked by people who are paid to know their shit far more than you or any other person in the league. Although half the men in the league will still claim to know all the secrets from their fantasy podcasts and intensive research, while the other half of the league secretly don’t give a fuck just as much as the ladies.

Every week, each player on your team is projected to earn a certain number of points based on a plethora of factors. Who gives a shit what those factors are, put in the people that are projected to get you the most points. Sometimes they will underperform, sometimes they will overperform. But in the end, you have no fucking idea so just enjoy your beer and do what the smart folks at ESPN tell you.

Every once in a while you will get a little red notification, something about trading. Just ignore that. You might even get a follow up text that reads, “Cass, check your trades you fucking moron.” Ignore that too. Trades are for people who actually give a fuck.

Now that we’re in the season, us ladies only care about winning based on the people in the league we’re playing against. Sure, it would be nice to win the whole thing. But we’re realistic. So long as that cute guy from the elevator beats us and feels guilty about it, but we fucking annihilate that douche who slept with our best friend and never called her back, then all’s right in the world of fantasy football.

So to the ladies, gays and heterosexual men who hate sports but are too afraid to admit it: when someone invites you to join a fantasy football league, don’t shy away. Not only do you get a reason to day drink on Sundays (as if you needed one), you get to pretend you give a rat’s ass about what’s going on in front of your boyfriend while staring at men in tights for hours. Ok, so maybe that last part doesn’t pertain to heterosexual men, but I’m sure there will be scantily clad cheerleaders. Whichever team you bat for, there’s something in it for us all. And if nothing else, it’s always fun to fuck with the people who take it way too seriously 😉

Jonah 1                      Jonah 2 Jonah 3

Fantasy Football: A Female’s Perspective

5 O’Clock Frost Bite


As I sit in my frigidly-cold office with a horrendous but cozy hoodie, my space heater on full blast, and my zebra-print Snuggie draped over my legs, I can’t help but daydream about the sun’s rays kissing my skin, warming my body to feel like I’m sunbathing in a tropical paradise.

Then I remember that I live in a fucking desert and it’s literally 107 degrees outside and someone in this godforsaken office doesn’t know how to properly work a thermostat. It is fucking freezing.

So here I am, debating whether to contribute to the demise of the environment by wasting all this excess energy, or whether I want to suffer a long, slow painful death that turns the sexy toned legs I’ve been working so hard for into shriveled up, frost-bitten nubs. I didn’t finally squat 135 lbs last weekend for nothing. The space heater stays.

According to the internet, men are apparently the ones to blame for cold workplaces (as with most things in life – golf, the toupee, children, etc.). So, what can you do to make your environment slightly more comfortable than the inside of a penguin’s asshole?

  1. Don’t be a woman under the age of 50. If you are, you’re probably shit out of luck. If you’re not, you’re probably not reading this.
  2. Dress like Michelle Duggar. No man’s hands are reaching those ta-tas, and neither is that frigid office air. Strap on your full-body underwear and your best button up polo, and you might actually be golden.
  3. Get pregnant. I hear pregnant women get hot easily. That will probably help.
  4. Quit your job. You didn’t like it anyway, and at your shitty roach-infested LA apartment, you’re the queen of the castle and can set the thermostat to whatever your heart desires. Until your roommate from hell gets home with her awful boyfriend who is constantly sweating a smell that can only be described as Axe and Jägerbombs. You’re better off being homeless anyway.
  5. Set all the thermostats in the office to 78 degrees, and leave sticky notes on each one that reads, “Whoever changes this, I will fucking murder you” I can’t confirm that this will actually work nor can I confirm that this will not get you fired, but it might release some pent up anger caused by Deborah and her awful fucking face. No, Deborah, I don’t want to hear you tell me “Good morning, sunshine!” at 8:30 in the morning before I’ve had my 5th cup of coffee. Don’t fucking look at me.
  6. Ask. Maybe you’ll get lucky and your boss will take care of the situation for you. Chances are they will give you some bullshit answer alluding to the fact that the world, the office included, does not revolve around your needs. Bitch, please.
  7. Cry. When asking doesn’t work, resort to crying. Especially in work places, this usually makes people so uncomfortable that they will give you whatever it is that you’re crying for just to get the fuck away from you STAT. Ask for a raise while you’re at it. You’ve put up with way too much of Deborah’s shit not to.
5 O’Clock Frost Bite