The terror for the opposition began with the importation of LT.

Whether if, at this point, the mud-sucking, bilge water-drinking challengers were aware of the fact that the end of their season was effectively under way was indeterminable.

But what cannot go unquestioned was deft maneuvering that made the Charger running back available at No. 2 to go along with the slight-of-hand aquisitions composed of Ryan Grant and Jessica Simpson’s favorite chew toy — lucky #### — were the moves of a master.

The pretenders to the crown that is soon to be majestically featured on the stunning dome of the fedora-wearing, eye-spinning future league champion were quickly reduced to quivering masses of eventual failure.

Forced to wallowed beneath the vile of their own early round draft picks, they made a final, feeble attempt to rebound in thelate rounds by grabbing whatever practice squad player remaining from their favorite team. Will they play? Are they injured? Retired? Dead? No matter. They wear the blue star and that’s good enough for a tenth rounder!

Labeling themselves as prolific red ticket-supporting pornographers, each, by way of their own ineptitude and the brilliance of the genius draft manager who produced a 20-game regular season MLB fantasy victory, is doomed to a season of fear and loathing — or any other such long strange trips of their choosing through the bizarre mind of Hunter S. Thompson.

And the pain was just beginning.

Wes Welker, the Bears defense, the beneficiary of Tom Brady’s offense and a rookie running back with absolutely no competition follow in the later rounds as the Mighty Titans, Kona Coffee Pickers and a Warrior Fanatic hopelessly cling to the recorded insight of the would-be draft experts at EA Sports in an effort to stay out of last place or, at least, to delay the inevitable.

As the season progresses, the losses will mount. Sweat comes to the brow of the Netherwing Knights as Adrian Peterson goes down with a knee injury leaving the team with only Reggie Bush’s 3.7 yards per carry and Ricky Williams’ five-leafed, sticky, stinky, red-haired herbal cure-all.

The People’s Team’s pick of unemployed baggage handler Tatum Bell is reason enough for unkind words of discouragement as are the four quarterbacks taking up space on the roster.
Sheeelli ensured a steady diet of losses and negative commentary based on her six running backs, but at least she has some company.

The Fanatic also has decided to hoard ball carriers much like Kirstie Alley with a ham sandwich.

Ahhh, the life of fantasy football. Sixteen weeks of interoffice trash talking where neither sex nor experience nor the ability to terminate employment is enough to save the also-rans from the wicked taunts of those on top. Victory affords the right to humiliate and defeat is an invitation for abuse.

The Dungeon and Dragons for the non-geeky, beer-drinking, jersey-wearing, solar-challenged sect, fantasy sports allows would-be general managers to match their wits against the witless in a epic struggle of dominance that pits the strong against the weak and mentally stable versus those who feel that only through constant roster movement and $600 worth of scouting reports can victory be attained.

What had began in 1980 with a group of friends at the the La Francoise Rotisserie restaurant in New York has blossomed into a billion dollar business that has raised the ire of more wives than beer belching contests, and has wasted untold employment hours.

Small prices to pay for the right to humiliate your best friends.

So good luck. Stay healthy and as Jack Jenkins said, “Don’t take this ####-whuppin seriously.”

Check that.
Who gives a damn if you don’t like being looked upon through the rear view mirror. We take our cues not from fictional fighters, but real coaches who feel victory is a birthright of the elite.
If you don’t like losing, get better!
You want respect? Don’t draft Vince Young as your starting QB!
smurray@midweek.com