What is up everybody?! Here we are, with Week 17 of the NFL season finished up and all fantasy football leagues crowning their champion. In the RazzBowl — the biggest pros-vs-joes best ball tournament out there — the champion crown went to a fan, Jerry Janiga! 

Way back in August, over 200 fantasy footballers drafted teams for the second RazzBowl. The field was whittled down to ten fantasy footballers by Week 16, and Jerry fended off industry experts Ari Engel, Matthew Stevens, and our own Donkey Teeth to claim the RazzBowl trophy.  Jerry was locked in a weekly battle with fellow fan Joey Wright for the #1 spot, and with the addition of Mick Ciallela from Fantrax, Jerry, Joey, and Mick controlled the #1 spot in the RazzBowl competition for about 80% of the tournament, making it a true battle for first place. In the end, Jerry won the RazzBowl by 7 points over Ari Engel, who had a leading 196 points in the final week. Thankfully for Jerry, the nature of the RazzBowl cutline scoring gave him the edge and the championship because he had higher scoring lineups in the best ball portion of the competition from weeks 1-9 and also better lineups in the playoff cutlines from Weeks 10-15. 

Despite the situation with [waves hands around] all of this, more fantasy footballers than ever signed up for the RazzBowl, and we’re thankful to all the industry sponsors, as well as the industry players and fans who played. Special thanks go to the NFC for hosting this event and calculating all the scores for us. 

Let’s celebrate Jerry’s victory with a little socially distanced interview!

Please, blog, may I have some more?

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It was ten minutes to midnight. 

In a broken-down semi-trailer somewhere in chilly northern Maine, where the Yahoo Fantasy Sports server farm operated, The Joey Wright sat, tied to a chair. A makeshift window had been cut in the metal of the semi-trailer, where he had a front-row seat to the impending destruction.

“You met me at a very weird time in my life, Joey,” a voice said in the darkness of the semi-trailer. 

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Welcome, welcome! It’s the championship week of the RazzBowl, so I’m sure there’s a couple new bandwagon followers reading this series for the first time. If you’re new here, let me tell you how this works: 15 weeks ago, over two hundred of the best fantasy footballers drafted teams and then ran the gauntlet of best ball, weekly scoring, and cutlines. Now, we are left with ten teams comprised of managers who didn’t draft Leonard Fournette competing for the Razz Bowl trophy, a bunch of merch, Rudy’s Sweet Tools, and the most important thing: internet validation. 

To help everybody get familiar with the championship players, I’m profiling them just like I would a real football player. Let’s get to know the championship tier! 

Please, blog, may I have some more?

After the third mantra of forgiveness, Donkey Teeth realized that what he was about to do was, in fact, inhuman nature. With his mind on a trophy and his heart filled with envy, he opened the door to his podcasting station. He picked up the iPhone that had Grey on speed dial, and he turned it off. “Won’t be needing that where I’m going,” he thought to himself. With a flick of his wrist he powered on the Razz-pooter, the super-workstation that powered the Razzball media empire. He minimized his windows of rankings, leaving only the 8K background visible: the giant, smiling face of Pat Fitzmaurice. “I’ll avenge you, friend.” Donkey Teeth whispered while he loaded up Twitter. 

Please, blog, may I have some more?

It was a dark and stormy morning. Aspiring fantasy writer Jerry Janiga sang the body electric at his typewriter, the words flowing through him. It was his fantasy football manifesto, “Catch Without Kickers.” He pulled out a notepad from his hotel drawer and quickly scrawled notes over its surface. Beneath the Holiday Inn Express branding, he sketched out his ideas for a winning team with Sam Darnold at quarterback. 

Please, blog, may I have some more?

“All aboard!” Stevens called out, standing at the rear of a semi-truck he had been using to drive the RazzBowl tournament participants across the country for the last twelve weeks. He pulled out a clipboard, took a swig of his blue raspberry slurpee, and read names off a list. Such was the life of the #2 seed in the Razzbowl: always the 1.02, never the 1.01. 

“Jerry Jan–” Stevens started when he was interrupted by a hand shooting up out of the crowd. “HERE!” the voice shouted, its face covered by an Antonio Brown vintage helmet. The figure shoved forward, toward the Razzball trophy that sat un-loved on the asphalt. The figure rushed forward, grasping the trophy’s handle like a lover’s hand. The trophy was cold, its silver-lining frosted frosted from the morning mist in the mountains. “What have they done to you my precious?” the figure whispered through the mouthguard. 

“OK, Jerry, you’re sitting up front with me,” Stevens said. “Everybody else, you’ll be enjoying a free showing of Batman and Robin in the trailer. Now, let’s get the champions in! Next up, Will Weiler…” Stevens trailed off, ignoring the helmet-ed figure heading towards the cab of the semi.

That helmet-ed figure was, of course, not the Razzbowl #1 seed Jerry Janiga. Where Jerry was, nobody could quite tell. In the darkness that followed the hellscape that was Wednesday Afternoon Football in Week 12, the former #1 seed The Joey Wright had “dropped” Jerry from his “roster.” 

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Deep in Razzball Headquarters — probably somewhere in Donkey Teeth’s third basement where he keeps his Jay Cutler jersey collection — a phone rang. The ringtone, Carley Rae Jepsen, but not the song you’re thinking of. This phone call broke the rules of decorum, where Donkey Teeth was not to be bothered while attempting to ascend to the status of bodhisattva. The un-becoming would wait.

“Aye,” Donkey Teeth answered, returning to the material plane and answering his Blackberry. 

“We’ve got a problem here, boss.” It was EverywhereBlair, weekly columnist for Razzball and the 18th most-read ranker on Reddit. “Seems Joey’s not coming out of his bubble.” 

“Leave it to me. I’ll be there in a minute,” Donkey Teeth said, leaving his lotus position and ending the call. Naked, he stood in front of his miniature shrine to Rex Grossman, his focal point for meditation. “Blue 42,” he whispered, and disappeared. 

Please, blog, may I have some more?

The Joey Wright was a king without a prince, even though the song 1999 pulsed in the background of the VIP section at Sticks, the only football-themed nightclub on the West Coast. The Battle of Lake Tahoe was won, but the War of the Razzbowl had taken its toll. 

“Another New Coke?” the bottle girl asked Joey, her referee-striped uniform reminding him of the Super Bowl Shuffle. 

“IT DOES NOTHING FOR ME!” Joey shouted, tossing a red flag on the floor to indicate he was done with his VIP session. The tech bros at the booth across the aisle poked their eyes up from their Nachos Grande and noticed Joey cradling a picture, whispering to it. One of them came over. 

“You OK, man?” the tech bro asked Joey. 

“Not since I lost The Mick,”

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Their gas tank empty, The Joey Wright and The Mick Ciallela stood on the side of a Coloradan road. It didn’t matter which one, they all looked the same here. “Tumbleweed West” is what Joey called it. “The death of us” is what Mick called it under his breath. 

“Check the trunk again,” Joey said, shaking his slurpee container and trying to get the last rocks of sugar into his straw. Mick pounded the trunk of the baby blue Buick Skylark, the latch popping and the trunk opening. “Yeah, I told you, it’s gone. Just this manifesto!” Mick picked up the zine, the color of a rainbow without contrast. The lede: STEAL THIS RAZZBOWL. 

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Through the hole in the floorboard near the gas pedal of the baby blue Buick Skylark, The Joey Wright and The Mick Ciallela watched the pavement pass underneath, mile by mile. The sky was the color of toast, burnt on both sides. 

“How much gas we got, Mick?” Joey asked, his hands jittery on the wheel and his eyes on the horizon. He had heard Nebraska was flat, but he had never heard about how the crows –thousands of a crows aloft in the sky — flew in mesmerizing patterns. He felt they were waiting for something. For them. 

Please, blog, may I have some more?