What's That Smell?

Watermelon Center - on the 18th of August, another steaming pile of Iceball Fantasy Football drafting has once again filled the air with its characteristically noxious mixture of methane, sulfur, wet dog, and decaying dwarf flesh - accented by the aroma of stale groundhog entrails decomposing.

As defending champion Johnny Aimer made his grand entrance, held aloft by six scantily clad, seductively beautiful hookers, the mood shifted from frivolity to rage. But after the intimidating gesture completed, the champ angrily shooed the willing ladies away, demanding, "Stop touching me, ya hags!" As they ran out the door, the contingent from the Dime Bags openly wept and others wondered why the hookers were allowed to drive away in the champ's car.

Pagnac's General Manager rushed to the board and made his selection before the Commissioner officially opened the draft, leading to a short brawl where vicious threats such as, "I'll scratch your eyes out!" and "I'll pinch you so hard!" were hurled between the combatants, terrifying the indifferent crowd.

Above: Even after strapping on a second "thinking cap," PFL GM fails to figure out how to turn on his phone.

From this glittering intellectual peak, things could only - and did - get worse. As pundits and international humanitarian observers have often said as a play on General Schwartzkopf's famous line, "Going to war without the French is like going to an Iceball fantasy football draft without a ceramic boobie cup."

It's unclear what that quote actually intends to convey, but the indignant Dime Bags' Executive Director for International Ceramic Nipple Cup Proliferation was overheard saying, "Can someone please tell me what 'proliferation' means?"

Token Chicks' Assistant GM ended up "getting lost" while transporting hoagies, leading Criminals' Chief Counsel, Rudy Gooliani, to accuse the Chicks for attempting to postpone the draft in order to perform additional scouting and "scheming" as part of a "deep league" conspiracy, offering scathing and inflammatory-sounding opinions as proof. A brief scuffle ensued, and America's mayor woke up later in the manure pile. "This is illegal," he murmured to one of the nearby microphone-outfitted deer. "I bet the Clintons run this league."

After the kerfuffle, bad picks, as usual, flowed like beer from gleaming taps.

One shocking set of sensible selections occurred when the normally - and severely - stupid owner of the Melons accidentally picked a pair of high end tight ends in early rounds.

"What did I do?!" howled Grimmisk in confusion.

"You just did something intelligent," Kegs Director of Player Personnel and Bung Plug Operations, Gully Rupertessimo grudgingly admitted. "It's not quite at ceramic nipple cup levels, but close."

"Things like that don't happen in this venue," groused Token Chicks' head of Eastern European scouting, Kareem Vulva. "And when I left, the watermelon on the counter was still unscathed."