Degenerates. Dentists.
One contrived union.

Tondalo will draft someone at least 19 spots above ADP, call it “getting his guy,” and spend the next four months explaining that championships are won by fearless men with no regard for evidence. Unfortunately, the defending champion’s 7–7 title run proves he may be right—which is the most disgusting outcome imaginable.

This is a man who entered the 2025 playoffs as the sixth seed, then mugged seeds three, two and one in consecutive weeks like a drunk stumbling into a bank robbery and somehow leaving with the vault. He has converted aggressive mediocrity into a championship philosophy, and now every objectively terrible pick will be defended as part of the same sacred process.

When he reaches for a backup tight end in Round 7 and tells us the room simply cannot see what he sees, are we witnessing another title defense—or just an asshole becoming emotionally attached to a depth-chart typo?

By Round 6, Greg will once again possess the highest-projected roster, the cleanest draft grade, and the erect posture of a man already posing with the trophy. He will dominate the regular season, secure a bye, and then watch a 7–7 collection of waiver-wire prostitutes kick down the door and rob him in his own home.

Greg owns the league’s best career winning percentage, the only 11–3 season, a 20–8 record and an empty trophy case so pristine it should be listed as commercial real estate. He does not build fantasy teams; he builds magnificent regular-season monuments that become public urinals in December.

If ESPN awards him another A-plus and he starts polishing an imaginary championship before Week 1, will anyone have the decency to tell him the playoffs are included this year?

Brian will assemble another scoring machine capable of dropping 133 points per week without breaking a sweat. Analysts will call it historic. League members will call it terrifying. The playoffs will call it “just enough time for an unexplained erectile malfunction.”

His 2025 team scored 1,866.66 points—the most in league history—then received a bye, lost the semifinal by 30.22, and lost the third-place game by another 20.94. Brian built a Ferrari, drove it beautifully for fourteen weeks, and then somehow backed it through the garage wall twice.

When his roster once again looks like the Monstars until the precise moment money is involved, will Cute Brian finally admit he is fantasy football’s most sophisticated form of premature ejaculation?

DeGrasse will spend eleven rounds building a balanced roster, then lose the player he wants by one pick because he was busy delivering a commissioner’s speech nobody requested. His season will eventually end by 0.02 points—the fantasy equivalent of being run over by a shopping cart traveling one mile per hour.

He scored 1,780.58 points in 2024, carried a healthy plus-87.84 differential, and still finished eighth after the most microscopic playoff violation on record. Two hundredths of a point is not a loss; it is the universe leaning down, placing its lips beside your ear and whispering, “Fuck you specifically.”

After building an entire digital clubhouse to preserve everyone else’s humiliation, is the Commissioner prepared for the possibility that his greatest historical contribution remains losing by the monetary value of absolutely nothing?

Pac will make fewer transactions than most managers make trips to the bathroom on draft night. Everyone will accuse him of abandoning the roster. He will respond by pointing toward the 2024 trophy and calmly reminding the room that his neglect has accomplished more than most of their research.

In 2024 he went 9–5, led the league with a plus-246.68 point differential, won the title by 48 and did it all with seven moves. The following year he made five, went 5–9 and finished eighth, proving the line between minimalist genius and forgetting your ESPN password is approximately two waiver claims wide.

When Pac checks his lineup for the first time in October and discovers three players on injured reserve, will we call it patience, load management or criminal roster neglect?

Raccio will draft like the 2024 runner-up for six rounds, then suddenly remember he scored 73.12 in a playoff game and begin selecting players as though the ESPN queue is administering a concussion test. By Round 13, even Josh Al's Pals will ask not to be associated with the roster.

He went from a 9–5 championship appearance to 4–10, last place and the league’s worst 2025 point differential. Camp Bear Huggers beat him by 107.66 in the consolation bracket, which is less a fantasy result than a chalk outline with a team logo inside it.

Was 2024 evidence that Raccio can build a contender, or merely the final burst of electrical activity before Josh Al's Pals became legally deceased?

Parkhurst will quietly select sensible players, avoid every obvious mistake, receive no mockery whatsoever, and leave with another competent team nobody remembers drafting. Tampa 2 will once again allow fewer points than everyone else through a defensive strategy best described as “apparently making opponents sleepy.”

Nahornick, acting as co-manager, will object to one pick. That player will become a league winner. This disagreement will be referenced at every social gathering until one of them dies. Their 2025 team went 9–5, earned the third seed, scored 89.82 in its first playoff game and exited so quietly the bracket barely noticed.

Can two adult men share one franchise without turning every selection into a custody hearing over a flex receiver neither will start correctly?

Billy will draft a perfectly respectable team and somehow lead the league in points allowed despite points allowed being entirely outside his control. Opposing rosters will experience career days, spiritual awakenings, and healed soft-tissue injuries immediately before playing him.

The Commissioner will investigate. The official finding will be: “God thinks this is funny.” Billy absorbed 1,844.32 points in 2024, the most punishment any DADCUM roster has endured, yet he came back to go 8–6 in 2025 because apparently repeated blunt-force trauma only makes a Philadelphia fan hornier.

When another opponent’s questionable tight end scores three touchdowns against him on four catches, will Billy blame variance—or finally accept that his roster is a Make-A-Wish program for struggling offenses?

Vinny will rename his team something invincible while drafting a roster projected to finish eighth. He will begin 0–2, insist the underlying metrics are excellent, and make 30 transactions rearranging the same six waiver-wire receivers like deck chairs on a booze cruise.

He will remain undefeated on the table, in the parking lot, and anywhere else ESPN does not record results. His 2025 team produced the fewest points in the league at 1,507.56, yet the name remained “Undefeated on the table,” a level of delusional brand discipline normally associated with failed dictators and regional car dealerships.

If the only undefeated part of Vinny’s franchise is the team name, at what point does confidence become false advertising with a liquor sponsor?

Lepre will take a player ESPN labels a “sleeper,” then allow that player to sleep peacefully on his bench during the only three useful games of his season. After two years, 19 losses, and a record-setting negative point differential, the Camp Bear Huggers are no longer rebuilding. They are returning the land to nature.

The Bears posted a negative-238.88 differential in 2024, then improved to merely negative-175.46 in 2025—a turnaround story in the same way drowning in a shallower lake is swimming progress. Naturally, Lepre also owns the highest single-week playoff score, 180.78, because his roster becomes sexually potent only after elimination has removed all consequences.

When Lepre’s team erupts in the consolation bracket again, will he celebrate the explosion—or wonder why his players only perform after the season has been declared legally fucking hopeless?

Panza will arrive with loud opinions, proprietary rankings, and the confidence of a man who has never been forced to produce supporting documentation. Whether he is drafting, advising, paying five times more, or merely heckling from the mahogany shadows will remain unclear.

By evening’s end, however, someone will have been called a peasant. For the avoidance of historical slander: the 2024 roster now listed as Anti-Dentites belonged to Mike Tondalo—the same bastard who beat Super Duper Uncle Daddy by 0.02 and later scored 348.04. Panza did not manage it; Tondalo merely borrowed his name for a franchise that caused financial confusion and permanent emotional damage.

When Panza announces that everyone is drafting like broke little serfs, will he reveal his secret rankings—or keep pretending volume is a substitute for fucking evidence?

The Parkhurst–Nahornick brain trust will agree on 85% of the board. The remaining 15% will consume 94% of draft night and require informal mediation from men who are already drunk.

Their most fiercely disputed pick will finish as the overall WR47. One will demand upside, the other will demand floor, and together they will select a man with neither while the timer bleeds down and nine franchises begin openly rooting for divorce.

If co-management is supposed to provide twice the insight, why does every Parkhurst–Nahornick selection feel like two guys trying to steer the same shopping cart with one broken wheel?

Someone will accidentally draft a kicker too early. The room will go silent. The guilty manager will claim it was intentional, cite positional scarcity, and spend the remainder of the evening behaving like a man attempting to conceal an erection at a funeral.

He will insist this particular kicker is “basically a weekly flex,” present half-remembered dome statistics and pretend the seventeen players he passed over were never in his queue. The pick will receive a C-minus draft grade and a lifetime appointment to the group chat’s Supreme Court of Fuckups.

When the first kicker comes off the board before a starting running back, who among you will have the courage to admit the finger slipped instead of delivering a TED Talk on field-goal opportunity?

At least one manager will lose connection, miss a selection, and receive a player better than everyone being actively discussed. This will inspire immediate allegations that ESPN is rigged, the Commissioner is corrupt, and competence has once again been unfairly rewarded.

The autodrafted player will become a top-five option while the manager’s hand-picked sleeper spends the year returning punts and aggravating a hamstring. Nothing wounds an adult male quite like discovering an unattended algorithm drafts better than he does after months of podcasts.

If ESPN can outperform your research while you are reconnecting to Wi-Fi, should the league restore your connection—or let the robot finish the job for public safety?

ESPN will award one manager an A. That manager will screenshot it. That screenshot will reappear after every early victory. By November, it will have the evidentiary value of a diploma from a closed massage school.

The grade will be based largely on projected value and roster construction, concepts the proud recipient will suddenly treat as holy science despite ignoring the same projections whenever they contradict him. His eventual 5–9 record will be described as “bad luck,” because apparently the A was real but every loss was an administrative error.

When that preseason report card becomes the only winning document attached to the franchise, will its owner frame it beside the participation ribbon or finally shut the fuck up?

The moment a second-tier running back comes off the board, four managers will independently conclude the position is “drying up.” Six running backs will then be drafted in nine picks, including one with a reconstructed knee, one trapped in a committee, and one whose head coach actively hates him.

Everyone will leave satisfied. By Week 4, half the group will be starting a converted kick returner whose fantasy outlook depends upon an incumbent developing food poisoning. The same managers will call wide receiver “deep” while watching 25 weekly points rot undrafted on the board.

When the room stampedes toward a collection of surgically repaired backup running backs, who will be brave enough to stop—or are we all content to fuck the same bear trap in alphabetical order?

One manager will announce, “You fuckers took everyone I wanted,” despite having access to the same player pool, draft order, internet, and several months of notice. He will then select the highest-ranked remaining player and describe the outcome as sabotage.

His queue will contain three already-drafted players, two injured players and a defense he added during a mock draft in June. When the clock reaches ten seconds, he will scroll frantically as though ESPN has hidden the good players in a secret adult section.

If every player you wanted was taken before your turn, did the league conspire against you—or did nine men simply perform the basic act of counting?

A rookie with no defined role will rise three rounds because someone watched a 14-second training-camp clip filmed vertically from behind a chain-link fence. The room will collectively decide this grainy footage outweighs all known medical, tactical, and statistical evidence.

The rookie will be described as “electric,” “unguardable” and “the next one” while competing for third-team reps against a defensive back who will be selling insurance by October. A veteran starter will fall two rounds because competence is less arousing than mystery.

When your rookie messiah records eleven touches by Thanksgiving, will you blame the coaching staff—or admit you were seduced by a helmet-only practice clip with motivational music?

DeGrasse will pause the draft to clarify a rule. While everyone argues, his preferred player will fall directly to him. An independent inquiry will later conclude that the Commissioner acted improperly, benefited personally, and will face the maximum available punishment: absolutely nothing.

The minutes will be drafted by DeGrasse, reviewed by DeGrasse and archived on a website controlled by DeGrasse beneath a gold hornet seal selected by DeGrasse. Any appeal must be filed through a Commissioner’s Filing Desk that, in an astonishing coincidence, also routes directly to DeGrasse.

When the Commissioner emerges from draft night with suspicious value and complete custody of the historical record, are we participating in a league—or financing a tiny, cigar-themed dictatorship?

The eventual champion will not leave draft night with the best roster. He will leave with a roster everyone politely calls “interesting,” begin the season 2–3, acquire one player nobody bid enough for, and become unbearable by December.

Greg will have the better record. Brian will score more points. Pac will make fewer moves. Billy will absorb another biblical assault. Lepre will discover a new basement beneath the existing basement. And Tondalo, still defending a championship won at 7–7, will remind everyone that dignity has never been a prerequisite for greatness.

Thus it is written: ten franchises shall enter, one shall lift the trophy, and nine shall blame injuries, scheduling, ESPN, the Commissioner, their wives, a toddler, daylight saving time and “one bullshit week”—so which one of you future excuse-making assholes is ready to be wrong in public?