Fee Fie Fo Fum, I drafted Buxton in the third round of my fantasy draft, would someone please slap the taste out of my mouth, for being so effing-dumb? Good gracious, the stench of my rotting 12th place carcass (Razzball Experts League) has somehow permeated through the dark web of Fantrax into my once lovely apartment. I say once lovely, for not only did it used to not smell of dead lilac water and festering wildebeest guts, but the windows were once open, the beaming sun warming my immaculate body like a microwave, kangaroo jacking another mediocre real estate agent, while everyone outside roared in applause. The true, raw, beastly, animalistic nature of humans on full display as they awaited the grand finale, the final curtain, where I would take my usual bow and hit the bowflex for a couple hours, a gift to the stragglers, yes, but mostly just a gift to myself. You see, I look at my body like a finely tuned… hold on, I’ve gotten off track here. Ahhhh, that’s right, darkness, misery and terror, back to that. So, sadly, Mt. Vesuvius was unable to erupt on this tragic day. So what if she came six times, the fact is I couldn’t provide the crowd with most potent window cleaner known to man when they needed it most…

Please, blog, may I have some more?