So, I won my fantasy football league this year. It’s a league going on 16 years now from college and I havn’t won in a long while. The last 6 years I was screwed unjust by fate. But this year I won, and by now the victors pot has become an impressive sum.
But it is not what I hoped for. I should be the champion, the undisputed king of our world. I should have gotten the glory of crushing my enemies before me and hearing the lamentations of their women. I should be standing on top of the mountain of war, laughing at their failure with evil glee, cavorting in my supremacy as I raise questions of the legitimacy of their birth and boastfully expose the shortcomings of my fallen opponent’s manhood, hearing their feeble and impotent curses as I stand over thier pathetic defeated wreckage, knowing that none may challenge me for for my godly throne for 8 months hence.
And yet I was robbed of my rightful inheritance. Fate, which has so greviously stabbed my back previous years, decided to pay back in full all at once, but in doing so has stolen my glory. Quarterbacks broke their legs, running backs were held out of battle by smug generals, and wide recievers reduced to spectators. I won many battles but, most were not spectacles of personal fortitude, the other side simply fell to their knees like weeping children before my army.
This is a victory that should deserve to be celebrated lavishly spending the spoils of battle with strong ale, copious meats and lustful wenches(keg of 1554, 2 inch thick ribeye, and a trip to the titty bar). But as fortune has robbed me of the joy of a true winners jubilation, a rubbery chicken fried steak at a cheap diner and a six pack of light beer is all that feels appropriate for this matter.