New letter from Tubby, written on a wad of bar napkins and jammed into an envelope. As usual, this is my best attempt at translation of his gibberish. Some details may have been mangled in transit.

Seems it’s finally dawned on him that he may have helped me create the worst fantasy football team in the history of the sport. Modern history, anyway.

—

Caesar never played fantasy football.
Which is probably just as well. If the Celts or Germanic tribes ever confronted him with the backstabbing and overall treachery that I’ve gotten from this rotten pack of so-called players rounded up by that demented moron Igor, he’d have massacred the lot of them. Rome would have ruled for 2000 more years, and there’d still be pasta and poorly engineered cars from Rome to Scotland.

…

I wrote that bit two days ago, before lurching into a short but energetic bout of drinking, and have since been informed that Caesar was in fact stabbed in the back, and front and sides as well. Consequently I’m reassessing my original stance, and my theory is now more aligned with the idea that he was likely playing some embryonic version of Fantasy Gladiator, and those treacherous sword wielding bastards were undoubtedly other members of his league.
History is a fascinating subject, and it gives me some comfort knowing that my exploits shall be studied, in depth, wallowed in even, and that some class time, maybe 15 minutes or so before the bell, will be devoted to the day I finally dropped a goddamn anvil on Igor’s head.
None of those miserable Romans ever did to Caesar what Igor did to me. None of them stuck him with Brian Quick as a starting wideout, or traded a crippled and lifeless CJ Anderson for 15% of my entire budget. If they had, even Shakespeare would have forsaken them. No one would voluntarily write about such treachery.
No one except me.

Tubby La’Fluer

Years ago I got roped into a Fantasy Football league. I was new in LA and it seemed a good way to bond with my brother and his friends. Besides, what would be more fun that beating my little brother and his friends, who were, after all, actors, struggling and otherwise. Like taking candy from a bunch of adults indulging their inner children.

This didn’t work quite as well I’d planned.

After getting beaten like a rented mule for a few seasons, I handed over the reigns of the team to an old college friend from New Orleans, Tubby LaFluer. He promptly renamed the team the New Orleans Decayed Southern Gentleman, recruited several of his more degenerate friends to help with the statistics, and we were off to the races.

Tubby was never actually enrolled at UNO as far as I know. He was always this sort of shadowy figure on the periphery of the Creative Writing program, and would generally put in an appearance late in the evening, when we were scattered and half blind from the drink. Several of my friends at the time weren’t entirely convinced that he actually existed. Another friend, Steve, not only was sure he existed but was convinced that under the ratty Hawaiian shirt Tubby wore he had wings. Short, black wings covered in soft rat fur, like velvet.

Though it should be noted that Steve denies that conversation ever took place and claims instead that I’d spent the balance of the night under the table singing one Henry Rollins song over and over.

Anyway.

Tubby, wings or not, was always a little, well, wound up tightly, and in the many years since I’ve moved away, seems to have gone a fair bit around the bend.

He communicates primary through regular mail, though I occasionally get a crazed flurry of texts, usually from a phone he’s pinched.

Anyway, I thought I’d include his correspondence on the blog. Mostly because I think its funny, but also because it might come in handy during commitment proceedings, should it ever come to that. Particularly since he’s threatened to come visit me in Los Angeles this year, and I know if that bastard ever lands on my couch I’ll never get him off without getting him locked up.

Consider this insurance then.

The photo here is of this years Draft Kit. A stack of notes scribbled in haste and jammed into an empty bottle of whiskey. Spent most of my money on Jordy Nelson, who blew out his knee while we were drafting. The New Orleans Decayed Southern Gentlemen are off to a good start.