Saturday, August 12, 2006

Bin Laden is in my fantasy football draft

The Army and the Marines have been scouring Afghanistan and Pakistan looking for the mastermind of the September 11th attacks, Osama bin Laden, with little success. They can't seem to find him, and maybe that's because they're not looking in the right place -- bin Laden was at my fantasy football draft.

We all got together after work two weeks ago at the Chili's in Jersey City, after weeks of planning and collecting the cash. When Steve called and the last minute and said he was bringing his friend Osama bin Laden with him, we didn't think anything of it. We figgered Steve had a good reason to bring him along, so what the fuck? Why not? What we weren't expecting Steve to get to the bar earlier than his guest -- and then Steve wanted us to wait for Osama to get there before we began.

We sat around for another 40 minutes for bin Laden to show up, and when he did finally get there, he tossed off some bullshit excuse about "tunnel traffic." As if... Steve told us bin Laden was coming from north Jersey. Fucking asshole.

So, we finally got rolling. We got three orders of potato skins, cheese sticks, and other appys to share -- but fucking bin Laden pulls the plate of buffalo wings to himself and starts going to town on the whole goddamn platter, like we ordered it for him. I nudged Steve, and he got the idea -- he asked bin Laden what he was doing eating all of our wings. Fucking Osama has the balls to say something about the tater skins having bacon on them, and some dogshit about dietary contraints. Asshole figures the wings were the only thing he was going to be able to eat. Steve fucking corrects him, and we continue.

As we go around the table, making picks, bin Laden keeps remarking how shitty he thinks each of our moves are. Like, he knows so fucking much living in that goddamn Tora Bora cave. And besides, he's not even picking, he's just watching. It's a goddamn favor to Steve that he's sitting in at all. And to top it off, the prick keeps telling us to take Tye Hill, the cornerback from Clemson. Fucking assface wouldn't shut the fuck up about the kid. "Tye Hill, gotta take Tye Hill. Hill is the man. Gotta take the man." He wouldn't shut the fuck up and drop it. I shot daggers at Steve, telling him to rein his fucking pal the fuck in.

We make it through five rounds, and Osama is getting totally shitfaced. He's into, like, eight Heinekens by this point, and he caps it off with a shot of Maker's. We're just trying to wrap this shit up, and bin Laden is (badly) trying to talk to this table full of secretaries off to the right. It's bad enough that the one brunette is clearly not interested -- she kept saying she didn't want anything to do with the world's most notorious fugitive -- bin Laden moves on to the blonde next to her, who keeps flashing her wedding ring to ward him off.

Minutes later, I'm helping Steve to pour bin Laden into a cab to take him back to Bergen county. Dumb bastard threw up in the planter box outside, seconds before the hack arrived, thank god. We hand the driver a $50 bill and tell him to take the leader of al Qaeda back home, please. As the cab pulls away, I punch Steve in the arm and ask him what the fuck he was thinking -- and Steve only offers that he thought bin Laden was going to be cool about it.

That's what we get for letting an asshat war criminal sit in on our fucking fantasy draft.