I’m not one to talk the trash or put someone in a verbal vice-grip, but when it comes down to knocking off my fellow RCL writers I feel the urge to gloat. Just a little. Despite my Red Sox World Series hangover of 2004 proportions, your humble-but-nonetheless-bloviating Guru took down JB’s undefeated team that is cleverly named “JB Gilpin” last week and he spent most of Sunday crying to me on the phone about “bye weeks” and how his cat doesn’t “understand” him. Sorry JB, I don’t know how to help you with Mittens, but bad things happen when you assemble your roster after 14 wine coolers. The one and only “Tis Tehol” also fell to your turban clad friend last week. Of course Tehol was too busy checking the progress of his receding hairline to set his roster again, but I’ll take the win. Tehol, are you so mesmerized by your Drakkar drenched banana hammock that you can’t find a tight end to start? However, my first place 6-2 “Scotch Fueled Gurus” lost to an unknown 12-year-old “expert” somewhere in Pennsylvania Amish country whose trash smackin’ prose made Richie Incognito look like Maya Angelou. The kid told me my turban smells like my grandma’s…well, you know, then he beat me 20 points. I feel so bullied. *one lonely tear drops* However, the jammer crammers have been coming through for us this year. Last weeks jams of Terrelle Pryor and Tim Wright were solid plug ‘n’ plays. Let’s forget I suggested jamming on the New Orleans defense, okay? Overall, we have hit on about 70% of our jammer/crammers in any given week. I’m not ready to surrender my turban just yet, my Razzballer’s. And I certainly won’t hand it over to a prepubescent, Fall Out Boy loving kid that sleeps in his Ben Roethlisberger footie pajamas while his mommy rubs his heiny and tells him how special it is. By the way, kid, my dad can beat up your dad. It’s time to jam it or cram it.