What happened to us?
This used to be a cut-throat, trash-talking, ego-driven league where grudges were currency and friendship ended the moment the draft clock started. It was glorious—an ecosystem powered by spite and caffeine. Now look at us: a bunch of fantasy snowflakes holding hands and congratulating Doll Face for her “amazing week” like we’re at a kindergarten awards assembly.

The league chat used to be a battlefield. A place where victory meant mocking your opponent’s waiver moves until they considered retirement. Now it’s filled with emojis, affirmations, and people saying “great win, sis!” after getting pummeled by 50 points. What happened to shame? What happened to hate?

Everyone’s tripping over themselves to applaud Doll Face’s high score as if she just solved climate change. Yes, she had a great week. No, we don’t need a fucking parade. This is fantasy football, not a gender reveal party. Once upon a time, a 120-point week would’ve been met with accusations of witchcraft, collusion, or at minimum, an insult about her starting lineup. Instead, we’ve got people saying, “Wow, you go girl!” That’s not competition—that’s a yoga retreat.

We’ve gone woke, plain and simple. We used to be savages, snarling at the sight of a bench mistake, laughing when someone started an injured player. Now the group chat sounds like a therapy circle. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, bro, you’ll bounce back next week.” Bounce back? In the old days, we’d bounce your phone number out of the chat for that kind of softness.

The VFFL was built on the sacred principle of mutual loathing. You didn’t root for your opponent—you plotted their downfall. Every trade was a hustle, every message a trap. Now people actually veto trades because they think they’re “unfair.” Unfair? Unfair was the point! You were supposed to trick your opponent, not help them find inner balance.

If we can’t hate each other for four months a year, what’s the point of playing? Fantasy football was our escape from civility, our socially acceptable way to call someone a fucking douche bag without HR involvement. We weren’t supposed to evolve into the Care Bears of competition.

So yes, congratulations, Doll Face. Enjoy your big week. But let’s not pretend this was some league-wide moment of empowerment. It was a beating—pure and simple—and we should treat it as such. We should mock, ridicule, and question the integrity of anyone who lets their opponent have a “moment.” Because if we lose the art of fantasy hatred, we lose everything that makes this league special.

The VFFL isn’t supposed to be nice. It’s supposed to be brutal. If I wanted mutual respect and positive reinforcement, I’d join a fucking book club.

Bring back the spite. Bring back the trash talk. Bring back the hate.

Because if we can’t enjoy someone else’s misery anymore—what’s the point of winning at all?

Luck Be a Lady Hawk vs The Revenant (139.20 – 68.96)

Doll Face came into Week 7 like a meteor strike. 139 points? That’s not a win—that’s a statement. After weeks of being the league’s Tina Turner,  M/A finally turned into a weapon of mass destruction. Tom didn’t stand a chance, managing only 68.96 points, which in human terms is the fantasy equivalent of missing an open layup.

Doll Face’s team was firing on all cylinders—starters, bench, probably even the kicker’s grandmother. The league chat lit up with congratulatory emojis, further confirming that this group has officially gone softer than a 60-year-old without the purple pill. In the old days, a 70-point beatdown earned you suspicion, not applause.

Tom, meanwhile, continues to hover at .500—too good to mock completely, too bad to respect. This wasn’t just a loss; it was an exorcism. The Hawk has risen, Tom is cursed, and the rest of the division just started sweating.

Big Dawg vs Joe Buck Yourself (94.34 – 91.62)

Finally—Kevin bleeds.

Kevin, the self-proclaimed fantasy messiah, finally got smacked in the mouth by none other than Rex “Field & Stream” himself. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective. Big Dawg took down the 12-2 titan, proving once and for all that Kevin’s invincibility complex needed a dent.

This game had the tension of a Senate ethics hearing—slow, petty, and full of questionable decisions. Kevin’s roster looked mortal, his bench looked lost, and his ego took its first real hit of the year. Rex, now sitting at 11-3, celebrated quietly—by which I mean he probably sent shirtless photos of himself holding a fishing rod to the group chat.

The top dogs are starting to nip at each other, and it’s beautiful chaos.

Show Me Your TDs vs 3M TA3 (87.94 – 65.38)

Stop the presses. Brian won again.

That’s two wins for Camel Toe, a sentence that shouldn’t even exist in English grammar. His 87.94 points were enough to crush Paulie, who apparently forgot that starting players who actually play football helps. Paul’s 65.38 total was so low it could qualify for government assistance.

The league erupted in disbelief, unsure whether to celebrate Brian’s revival or stage a fucking intervention. This game was less about performance and more about persistence—proof that if you lose enough, even fate gets bored and gives you a pity win.

Paulie’s five-win mirage continues to fade faster than Vanilla Ice’s popularity. At 5-9, they’re basically the league’s third-party candidate: technically participating, but entirely irrelevant.

Sugar Islanders vs The Ballerinas (69.86 – 97.18)

Beth’s bad juju is back.

After weeks of flirting with redemption, the Sugar Islanders fell hard against The Boss. 69.86 points? That’s not sweet—that’s sour. Meanwhile, Bob strutted onto the stage with 97.18, finally proving that grace and grit can coexist.

The Boss’ squad looked balanced, dangerous, and—dare we say it—motivated. This was the first time all season The Ballerinas didn’t pirouette straight into mediocrity. Beth’s team, on the other hand, played like they were allergic to touchdowns.

The Doll Face Curse is alive and well, claiming another victim just as the league was ready to canonize Beth’s comeback story.

Keydets vs HOF Commish (104.44 – 109.58)

The Commish strikes again!

In a rare display of competence, Gerry took down Coach in a thrilling mid-tier showdown. Gerry’s 109.58 points mark his highest total in weeks, and more importantly, it knocked the smug grin right off Coach’s face.

The Keydets, sitting at 9-5, are still contenders—but this loss hurts. Gerry, now 6-8, celebrated like he just judged a cheerleader trampoline contest.

Was it luck? Was it divine intervention? Who cares—it was hilarious.

One Man Wolf Pack vs Evil Chess Geek (91.78 – 61.74)

The Geeks are collapsing like a poorly built AI start-up.

After weeks of barely holding it together, ECG imploded completely, scoring 61.74 points—his worst showing since joining the league. It’s official: the trade with Tom has aged like a banana in the sun.

Junior, meanwhile, keeps doing what Junior does best—quietly stacking wins while everyone else self-destructs. At 9-5, he’s back in the thick of contention. His team may not be flashy, but it’s ruthless. And that’s something the league could use more of.

ECG’s 7-7 record tells the whole story: once calculated, now confused. The “Geek” moniker feels ironic at this point—it’s less chess, more checkers.

Power Rankings of Shame (Week 7 Edition)

1. Evil Chess Geek (61 pts) – The brain trust has gone bankrupt.
2. 3M TA3 (65 pts) – Your five wins feel like historical fiction.
3. Sugar Islanders (69 pts) – Sweet? No. Sour? Absolutely.
4. The Revenant (68 pts) – Time of death: Sunday, 4:15 PM.
5. Show Me Your TDs – Yes, you won, but let’s not get carried away.

ð Weekly Awards

• MVP: Doll Face — for dropping 139 like a hand grenade.
• LVP: Evil Chess Geek — for redefining “mental collapse.”
• Upset of the Week: Gerry over Coach — a triumph of luck over logic.
• “About Time” Award: Brian — congratulations, your participation ribbons are in the mail.

Final Thoughts

Week 7 reminded everyone that no one is safe—except Kevin, probably. Hawk erupted, the Geeks imploded, and the league chat turned into a therapy session for everyone Tom has ever traded with.

The standings are stacked tighter than Rex’s camouflage pants, and as we roll into the back half of the season, one thing’s certain: the fake friendliness phase is over.

So take your emojis, your “great win” messages, and your soft congratulations—and shove them where Brian’s playoff chances used to be.

This is fantasy football. We don’t clap for good weeks. We root for your downfall.

– ECG, still bitter, still brilliant