Oh Preston, my Preston
Why hast thou drop thy hammer on thy league like a mighty oaf laying waste to, beset upon, beside thou over a tender turkey leg on the annual Givingthanks?
Who shall, nay might take it upon thy being to step up to the plate, take a few good hacks and knock good sir Preston off thy podium?
Be it Lady Miss Pink Panther, led into battle by young sir Kyle(r) of the Allen, Texas Murrays, wielder of dual-bladed battle axe, legs of a centaur, arm of an ox and mind of a brilliant ox.
Be it gentleman Hawkeye, keeper of Derrick of Henry, roller of Tide, bender of limb of defender and signer of monster contract extension.
Be it Purple Eater of Man, thine tight end drawn to the evil forces of reality television, polluter of innocent mind, provider of fortune for sirs Probst and Seacrest.
Or perhaps be it Fantasy Football Team, thine quarterback a champion of Super proportions, saint Patrick, surely thy Eagles and Jets wish young saint Patrick would doth thou green.
The remainder of the league watches on from thou’s abodes, twiddling thy thumbs and dreaming of a championship trophy on thy mantle, the whistle of the teapot bringing them back to thy present moment, before thou realizes thou hast no more tea bags, but Safeway awaits, aisles of tea bags of all kind populating thy shelves, decaf too.
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