Separation Insanity

Separation anxiety is a well-known state in psychology. However, some people, when separated from their loved ones for too long have been known to, as delicately stated by world-renowned Professor of Psychology at the University of Indiana, Mildred Vadgepatch, "completely lose their shit."

Apparently, the strain of being away from a house jammed to the gunnels with females (that means girls, LePeepee) has gotten to the brain of the lig's commissioner, Kelpy McTeenypeeny.

"You can call me 'Danielle' from now on, or don't talk to me at all!" screamed the formerly sane owner of the Balloon Knots. Seen below during a recent business trip, the now plus-sized gal was proudly letting it all hang - or bulge - out.

Danielle catches a few Zs.

In a poignant and touching story of utterly pointless do-gooding, best friend, Rupert, set out across the globe to attempt a solo intervention. Seen below working feverishly on his huge laptop computer in an airport while en route to intercept 'Danielle' before a pivotal visit to a European clinic (and you know it's him because you can plainly see the foo mustache and beard), Rupie did everything he could to help his unwell friend avoid a costly mistake.

Rupert valiantly typing sternly worded appeal to Customs officials to deny Danielle exit from the country while waiting to intercept Danielle at the airport.

Rupe was delighted that he was able to prevent the wiener-shredding, vagina-making surgery in Belgium. "This is a small victory, I know," he said, adding, "But GEEEZ-is, look at that clown! He's bat-shit crazy and no one cares but me! I can't let him down - I can't."

In a statement written in small pieces of macaroni glued to a cardboard box, older brothers Grimisk and Bertrand appeared to have confirmed as much by saying, "It's true - we don't care."

Troubled and estranged children and family members have been unable to convince Danielle that he should stop his vag-quest. Even the normally supportive Karplunk was quoted as saying, "if he goes through with this, I'm going to kick his bitch ass!"

Controversy, you are no stranger to Iceball.

Draft Day - 2013

As social scientists attempt to analyze the apparent regression of American civilization into a hate-filled cesspool of ignorant imbeciles, one piece of data remains as a towering spire of proof that it's all going to hell in a handbasket: the IceBall fantasy football league draft. Racists, rednecks, drunks, perverts, homophobes, morons, and their despicable enablers were on hand for the latest humiliating installment. It proved every bit the crap-show as previous years.

When asked about the lig's contribution to the disintegration of modern society by a Harvard University researcher, self-appointed spokesman, Grimisk Von Tippytoe said, "Listen toots, we're just going with the flow here. We're victims in all this madness. If we hadn't been forced into spending our time on fantasy drafts, we'd just be wasting time on our hideous families. Now will you please put your pinky into my rectum like you promised?"

Beer quality at the event was improved dramatically by Cousin Paddy's home-brewed pilsner. Of course, the requests for some Belgian-styled or maltier beers were unfulfilled, as the destroyer of PAGNAC preferred to go with a German-styled classic. The expectations for superior styles were dashed in much the same way as Paddy's hopes for a lig title were dashed by his hideous drafting.

And Rupert bemoaned the fact that no one sells an affordable conveyor-belt system that can process and pull french fries from the frier (light on the salt, heavy on the ketchup!) and shovel them straight into his gaping maw in a continuous, never-ending, assembly-line fashion. Although it was discovered that such a machine exists, there is no suitable 'pause' button to allow for activities like dropping a deuce, drinking a beer, giving a neighbor a handie, or making a bad draft pick. Documents are currently under review, but speculation is that the odiferous owner may have broken the record for most weight gain during a team draft in the history of fantasy football. Neighborhood witnesses have attested to hearing a sound similar to fingers rubbing an inflated balloon, indicating massive skin expansion took place - or Rupie was licking balloons... but either one is disturbing enough.

Money Shots owner, who recently flirted with a name change to Jeeter-Jater because it sounded more "cuddly," was in high spirits even though his Google Hangouts concept ended up being a chaotic clusterf*ck - every bit as chaotic a clusterf*ck as the perpetually doomed Money Shots franchise. Clearly, JJ's elation was due to receipt of signed molestation waiver release forms from all the parents of little boys in his coaching care. When asked about how his draft turned out for this season, the laser-focused owner remarked, "Sandusky was a small-time dabbler. I'm going into this at full speed!"

The lig hobo, Chris LePeePee, finally materialized for a draft. Apparently and fortuitously, the last train he jumped got him close to Bally. Last season, incredible luck led to his challenging for the title. It remains to be seen if all the luck was used up by the train's convenient stop near the draft site. All those attending in person were delighted and/or titillated by the photos he brought of toothless, transient, homeless people taking turns at Chris's thoughtfully improvised, rail-car Glory Hole. The phrase, "pulling a train" has now been rendered ironic.

Bert and BrentBert came together (hee hee hee hee hee!) to the draft. I said they "came together"... that implies some sort of 69 action... and that's just plain funny by any measure. Both Berts are very prepared, which continues to infuriate totally unprepared members (hee hee hee - I said "members"!) of the lig. Look for these two to compete well for the playoffs and find any excuse to get together to celebrate their, uh, celebrations.

This year's gracious host, Karplunk, was fast and decisive with both her food preparations and draft choices. Sadly, the maids, Winston, Thurston, and Geevs (all Mexican women) protested the cruel and inhumane assignment of supporting the draft event. So, in a uniquely motherly way, Karplunk had them shot and buried in the woods. At the persistent demands of Dr. Racy, a crew of teenage Filipino girls is en route, locked inside a freight container to replace the Mexicans. 

In the meantime, potties were overflowing and weiners were frenetically rubbed around the bathroom doorknobs to ensure that it's clearly known what event had just taken place. All attendees were well-fed, and the blow-up Jeeter-Jater doll was vigorously and frequently put to the test of its fullest endurance. Attendees were assured that the DNA-bearing materials left behind would not be found on any murdered Mexicans.

Speaking of decorum, the reliably stoic and composed A-Team owner, Jumpin Johnny Jibjab arrive early and under the influence of model glue. No one understands what happened to the one-time model of decency, but he wasted no time raiding the fridge in search of huffable cans of whipped cream. Things only went downhill from there as the future, johnson-texting Mayor of Schwenksville began making picks. The good news is that it's unlikely he'll get sober enough to realize how bad he did.... and we can all learn a little something from that, can't we?

Which naturally brings us to Dawnuld, who, as predicted, provided the most unique draft strategy with an open scorn for traditional methods such as choosing players who can generate points for your team. Calling the new system, "cracker barrel," he explained that it meant he would pick crackers and if he didn't win with white boys, he'd point the barrel of a gun into a pl@yground of choldren and demand other teams trade him good players before he becomes famous. That was troubling to the few owners who decided to draft good players this season, but others, like Dawnold's beloved sister, Karplunk, said, "That idiot wouldn't know a bullet from a bed bug. That pinhead is as bad at bluffing as he is at everything else."

The brains behind the Chick's resurgence last season, Barrett, resisted the plentiful offers of disabling quantities of alcohol to calmly and dutifully attempt to bring some much needed dignity to the long-suffering freak show which the Cruzinburg franchise has become. But the big story for Barret was the pre-draft initiation. The youngster's father proudly snapped and posted photos as Barrett worked over the Jeeter-Jater doll - the traditional rite of passage into official lig ownership position. Tears of unbridled joy welled conspicuously in Cousin Paddy's eyes at the conclusion of the ceremony, managing only to note in the emotional moment that, "he tore that doll up, man!"

This report would be remiss if we didn't note the enigmatic rise of toddler MackMack during the draft. Barking out unintelligible nonsense orders, frequent farting, binge drinking (chocolate milk - the well-known 'first stop' on the way to alcoholism), and random urination locations during the event were noted by all in attendance. If you were thinking, 'future commissioner'.... then we're all on the same page.