2025 Week 1 Post

Well well WELL…Welcome back mothafuckas!! You fantasy-footballin’ sons of sweet Halal women indeed!!!! It’s me Jerry again. Sorry about the whole Micah situation…However, I did orchestrate a Hershel 2.0 and only time will vindicate me. (Yes, I made that trade and all the draft day picks that followed it, Jimmy’s bitch ass had nothing to do with that shit, ALL ME BABY! Fuck’em)

We don’t really get Muslims in Ar’Kansas but I guess I gotta get more accepting of people in all walks of life. A toast of alcohol to you all and to a great 1990s! Lordy, I miss them. But we will win again. One day. Before I’m 6 feet deep next to my daddy on that farm…..Raise your damn glass Jimmy, you bastard!!! Raise it high!

It’s that magical time of year again…When grown-ass men neglect their families, burn through the waiver-wire like day traders on Adderall, and pretend they are Bill fuckin’ Belichick making depth chart substitutions. Well before he had to babysit his girlfriend. (I like ‘em young too Billy, don’t worry) (Jerry knows….Rawwwrrr)

But guess what? None of you jackasses are gonna win this league. You’re all chasing my gold-plated coattails like I’m the last brisket at a tailgate buffet. I am a champion! I will forever be a champion! The 90s were so great. Oh how I miss them.

Now, if you caught that Netflix masterpiece about America’s Team—yeah, MY team—you probably noticed it had more dramatic tension than a solo 2 on 1 dinner with me, Jimmy Johnson, and Barry Switzer.

Hell, that show tried so hard to humanize me I thought they were gonna CGI tears onto my oil-slicked face. Glad they didn’t.

But spoiler alert: I ain’t cried since I won it all with the Razorbacks, or maybe that one infamous trade I made that got us 3-Superbowls. And even then, it was mostly crying from laughing. Because we fleeced everyone. Sorry, correction: I, fleeced everyone. (My idea)

And Jimmy? Oh Jimmy… bless his high-hair havin’, ring-chasin’, passive-aggressive ass. They tried to paint our lil' spat like some Shakespearean tragedy. He can suck my dick! (I’m told Chris is an expert at that)

Truth is, I just got tired of that man thinking he was the damn sheriff in MY saloon. You don't piss in the owner's whiskey and expect to keep your boots on the desk, partner. You know what I’m saying?

But enough history—this season ain't about the past. It's about future domination. It’s about putting your balls on the line every Sunday and praying your RB doesn’t fumble your dignity away, like a Derrick Henry in the 4th quarter…Oh, so sad.

It's about building a fantasy dynasty so disrespectful it makes Deshaun Watson file a restraining order. (Please Lord, don’t let Nazim win again)

So saddle up, set your lineups, and remember: there’s only one America’s Team. The rest of y’all? Just background noise in MY highlight reel. This is MY movie! You are all just extras in it. 

But let it be on the record, I’m down with the brown, Jim Brown that is. Yes, I’m Jim Brown old. Fuck you Naz! You can’t kill me. I’ll never die. Deal with it!

Now let’s get into this Week 1 post and let our nuts hang low—Unlike Jimmy, who left his down in Miami. I got you bitch. (I miss you, I’m sorry, I have nightmares about my choices still. Come back)

—Jerry Fuckin’ Jones

Humza vs Rimmel

Now let me tell y’all somethin’ right off the bat. I ain’t seen a fantasy blunder this bad since I let Jason Garrett clap his way through a decade of mediocrity.

Humza, boy, what in the Shaytan-Jin-Hell were you thinking? Starting the Bills defense against the Baltimore Ravens high powered offense? That’s not a bold move—that’s a football-assisted suicide. That D got lit up like a Christmas tree in a meth house. I’ve seen more resistance in a wet paper napkin.

And Joe Burrow? That son’a’bitch looked like he forgot which team he plays for. Could’ve scored more points if he’d stayed home and filmed another goddamn Bose commercial. Looked like a cat with CTE trying to throw a football with his off-hand. I don’t care how cool his haircut is—He played like Humza drafted him outta hospice.

Now let’s talk about AJ Brown. Supposed to be an Alpha dog wide receiver, right? Only thing he dominated was page 63 of whatever goshdarn uplifting motivational novel he was reading on the sideline, while your fantasy team flatlined, Humza.

Man was out there looking like a librarian on a lunch break. Points? 1.3… Effort? Pansy-ass. Fantasy impact? About as useful as a condom in a monastery.

Meanwhile, on the other side of this virtual war zone, you got Sweet-Sweet Rimmel, struttin’ into Week 1 like a man who actually gave a damn. He started Mr. Pfizer Travis Kelce—who did what Kelce does. Double-digit points, clean routes, and more chemistry with his Mahomes, than Taylor Swift has with breakup albums.

And Jaxon Smith-Njigba? 14.9. That njigba (Hard R for Chris) got some smooth routes, solid YAC, and a Michael Irvin smile when The White House cocaine is flowing.

Rimmel didn’t just win—he curb-stomped Humza with a NA Bud Light in one hand and a waiver wire gem in the other. It wasn’t just a victory. It was a statement. A message. A handwritten letter in blood that said:

“Don’t you ever come at me with that bullshit lineup again.”

Final score? Irrelevant. The only number that mattered was the L tattooed across Humza’s forehead. Might as well send him a sympathy card and a bottle of Pedialyte, cause that Haram hangover’s gonna last all season.

Humza, listen—next time maybe don’t build your team like it’s an arts and crafts project. Start dudes with good matchups who can actually score positive points. And for the love of Allah, stop trusting the Bills D against Lamar Jackson and Derrick Henry…

Rimmel? Hell of a job, beautiful cowboy. Week 1 champion. Go ahead and sip your chai, sit back, and enjoy the view from the top while Humza tries to figure out if his team can legally be euthanized under Texas law. Because I can’t be, sorry Naz. And no, I won’t just die already…

Sean vs Ali

I tell you what, I’ve seen some piss-poor management in my day. Hell, I invented it. But what Ali did this week? That wasn’t just poor—it was an outright football war crime (FreePalestine). He oughta be fined, banned, and put in a fantasy timeout with a juice box and no Wi-Fi.

And let's talk about the biggest crime first: starting Calvin Ridley.

4.7 points? Ali: Four. Point. Seven. That’s not a fantasy performance—that’s a cry for help. I’ve seen more production from my wife’s vagina, and I haven’t used that thing since 1996.

What’d you think, he was gonna channel 2020 Ridley and drop 30 on Rimmel with functioning knees? Man looked like he was out there running routes in goshdarn quicksand. I’ve had longer conversations with my ex-wife than his target share.

And while Ali’s out here running a charity roster for washed-up receivers, Sean is sittin’ on his porch like a smug bastard with a cold mango juice and a 38.6-point Josh Allen masterpiece on his hands.

Thirty-eight and some change, baby. That boy Allen came out of the tunnel like he’d been possessed by prime Brett Favre and a bald eagle. He was throwing bombs like he thought it was the 4th of July and his contract depended on it.

And the craziest part?

Sean still beat Ali’s sorry ass with Jamar Chase putting up 2 catches for 26 yards. That’s your first overall pick looking like he got abducted by aliens mid-game and replaced by a guy who’s legally blind.

That’s like showin’ up to a gunfight with one bullet and still walking away with everyone else’s wallets and girlfriends. Haram.

Sean didn’t just win. He dominated. His team went off like a goddamn firework show. Meanwhile, Ali’s roster was out there reading bedtime stories and asking for hugs.

Ali—Your squad’s softer than toilet paper at a vegan brunch. No wipe, peace and blessings.

And Sean? Hats off, you pulled a win with your WR1 giving you the fantasy equivalent of a limp handshake. That takes skill. Or voodoo. Or both. Either way, helluva performance.

Week 1 is in the books. Ali’s in the mud. Sean’s in the penthouse. And I’m about to pour myself another bourbon before I start firing people out of spite. Saturday Night Massacre.

Nazim vs Alex

To whom the hell it may concern,(and by that I mean every sorry bastard still thinking Alex has a fantasy team worth a damn):

I, Jerral Wayne Jones — oil baron, football god, and full-time decision-maker for the Dallas Cowboys and every single thing that matters in this universe — am here to address what happened this past week between Nazim and Alex.

Let me put it in plain, dirty Texas English:

Nazim beat Alex’s fantasy team so bad, I had to check league rules to see if murder was allowed.And I approved it anyway.

Now Nazim, that boy's different. He's built like the kind of fan I’d clone if the government ever lets me. He agrees with every single decision I’ve ever made. You hear me?Every. Single. One.

• He stood by me when I paid Zeke like he was the last cow in Texas.

• He clapped when I let Jimmy Johnson walk and said, “I could win this whole damn thing myself.”

• He nodded when I hired Mike McCarthy — a man built like a baked potato with a headset.

  
  

  Nazim believed.

  
  

  And now look what he did:

  
  

  

  
  

  He drafted a goshdarn Death Star of a fantasy team and vaporized Alex like a wet fart in the desert.

Let me tell you something about Alex’s team — it looked like it was drafted by a drunk possum that’s been huffin’ diesel fumes behind a Dollar General.

• His QB put up fewer points than my fax machine.

• His RBs ran like they owed child support.

• His WRs? I’ve seen more separation in a Waffle House bathroom stall.

• And his kicker? If I ever saw that performance in Dallas, I’d have the man dragged behind a F-150 on I-35.

• Fuck kickers.

Nazim didn’t just win.

He walked into Alex’s fantasy living room, took a dump in his cereal, changed the Netflix password, kissed his mom on the mouth, and left wearing his hoodie.

And he did it while muttering “In Jerry we trust.”

That’s the kind of loyalty I want. That’s the kind of raw, delusional, oil-soaked football love that wins championships and gets you your own goshdarn Dallas Highlighter statue. (Coming soon Naz)

So to all you other fantasy managers out there — especially you, Alex, you flaccid, waiver-wire-clinging son of a bitch — let this be a warning:

Nazim is comin’.And he’s bringin’ the wrath of Jerry with him.

Signed,Jerry “I Built a Billion-Dollar Stadium on Spite and Boner Pills” JonesOwner, GM, LegendDallas Fuckin’ Cowboys

Ahsan vs Colten

Ladies(Chris) and gentlemen(Everyone else) and degenerate fantasy football managers (Naz)

It is with great pleasure, a heavy pour of bourbon, and a total lack of sympathy that I announce:Ahsan lost by 0.4 fantasy points to Colten in Week 1.

And he lost it in the most balls-shriveling, soul-ripping, dick-punching way imaginable.

Now—I’ve seen some dumb shit in my life.I once watched Quincy Carter try to run a two-minute drill with a contact lens missing.I’ve seen my own grandson draft a kicker in the 8th round and blame the algorithm.But what happened to Ahsan?That was Shakespearean tragedy meets CFL comedy.

Let’s set the damn stage:

The game’s over. Or so he thought.All Ahsan needs is DJ Moore to NOT turn into a fucking circus clown on the final play of the Monday night game between the Bears and the Vikings.The clock’s dying. It’s desperation time. Lateral city. A goddamn flea-flicking, hope-and-pray nightmare.

And what does DJ do?

That son of a bitch fields a lateral like he’s greased in Crisco, coughs it up like a furball, and costs Ahsan 2 precious points.

TWO POINTS.

On the final play.Ahsan was WINNING before that dumb bastard went full Benny Hill and dropped the rock.

Afterward? He loses by 0.4.Point. Four. Like a fart in the wind. Like a bottle cap. Like a mosquito’s dick. THAT close.

Meanwhile, Colten didn’t even watch the play.Man was probably six beers deep (Haram) and finger-blasting a Costco chicken bake when the fantasy app popped up with the update:

“DJ Moore -2 fumble on last play.”

And just like that, Colten wins.

And Ahsan? That poor dude lying face-down on the living room floor, ESPN app open, whispering to Allah above,

“Tell me this ain’t real. Tell me DJ Moore didn’t just rawdog my entire fantasy season over a lateral attempt in a game that was already over.”

Well guess what, Ahsan?

It was real…

Just like the melanoma cancer that has riddled my skin but can’t seem to finish the job

But your Week 1?

Dead.And if I was commissioner, I’d mail you a VHS tape of that play and charge you $9.99 shipping just to twist the knife.

Let this be a lesson to all y’all:Fantasy football don’t care about your hopes. It don’t care about your Monday night dreams. It don’t care about “well technically I had more total yards.”

Fantasy football is a filthy, heartless mistress in stilettos — and this week, she spit in Ahsan’s mouth and walked off with Colten, to be his 2nd wife. (Halal)

And DJ Moore?I’d cut that son of a bitch faster than I cut my own damn haircut budget.

Hell, if he ever tried that on the Cowboys, I’d make him personally mow the turf at AT&T Stadium with scissors and tears.

So here’s your recap:

Ahsan got robbed. Colten got lucky. DJ Moore should be on a milk carton. And fantasy football is the cruelest bitch in the business.

Yours in pain and profit,Jerry “I’d Rather Lose My Liver Than Lose by 0.4” JonesPresident, GM, Trauma TherapistDallas Cowboys

Parth vs Yaseer

To anyone who still thinks Parth gives a single shit about showing up for an actual draft —

Let me make one thing crystal-fuckin’-clear:Yaseer absolutely DOMINATED Parth this week.

We’re not talkin’ a close game. We’re not talkin’ a "damn, good effort" kind of loss.No, no.We’re talkin’ a back-alley, full-throttle, no-lube thrashing.

Yaseer beat Parth so bad, it needs to be reported to Cowboys HR.

And I’m also the President of HR.

So cry me a river Parth.

And the worst part?

Parth didn’t even see it coming — probably ‘cause he hasn’t seen a live draft room since Biden was in office.

That’s right, folks:TWO STRAIGHT YEARS this man has ghosted the in-person draft like his name is Dave Casper (Only the 70+ year olds will get that one)

We set up the TV. We got the pizza. We bought the High Noons. Hell, Nazim even got name cards for players… (that were never even used by the way)

And Parth?

Wedding season. 

Again.

Dude has more weddings on his calendar than Larry King.Parth drafting from his phone like some sort of fantasy fugitive hiding in the wedding reception parking lot.

And now look what happened:

Yaseer showed up. And showed the fuck out.

• Mahomes? Surgical. Like the Texas Cowboy, he is. Splitting hairs with a six-shooter.

• Achane and Brown? Human joysticks. Fantasy Viagra.

• His wideouts? Catchin’ passes like they were gettin' paid in Bitcoin and NFTs.

• His kicker? Tyler Mothafuckin FruitLoops? Slapped more than Parth’s entire damn roster.

Yaseer drafted with the confidence of a man who’s looked another grown man in the eyes and said, “It’s 4th and 26 but I’ll go for it.”

And that energy translated to a Week 1 beatdown of biblical proportions. (Haram)

Meanwhile, Parth’s team played like they were still buffering.Half of ‘em looked like they just landed in training camp.

• Jerome Ford was a bigger ghost than Parth.

• Nico dropped balls like he were allergic.

• His TE? Evan Engram? Might’ve been replaced with a folding chair.

  
  

And when the dust settled?

Yaseer lit a cigar, pissed on Parth’s hopes, and left his team crying into a half-PPR grave.

So here’s the final word:

SHOW UP TO THE DAMN DRAFT, PARTH.

(We miss you and hope you are well)Or stay losing like the draft-dodging, waiver-wire war criminal you are.

With all due disrespect,Jerry “I Built a Stadium Just to Humiliate My Enemies” JonesOwner, GM, Commissioner of VengeanceDallas Cowboys

Kyriacos vs Chris

Well, well, WELL. Week 1 of fantasy football and the football gods have ALREADY pissed directly in Kyriacos’ mouth I see? Like I’m, I mean he’s some kinda urinal in a Philly dive bar. 

And who’s standing tall, grinning like a goddamn possum in a ginger-corn crib? Chris. 

That smug, fantasy-gay son of a bitch. And let me tell you — Kyriacos is boiling. 

Like oil in a turkey fryer on a Thanksgiving Cowboys game.

We play every year. Ain’t never going to change. Likely gonna lose.

Now let me paint this picture for y’all.

Kyriacos strutted into Monday night thinking he had a chance. 

All he needed was get 18.1 points from D’Andre Swift. EIGHTEEN POINT ONE. That’s a few big runs and 2 TDs. 

That’s a Tuesday morning bowel movement in fantasy terms for a good RB. But what did Swift do? Nada.

Meanwhile, Chris — that gay bastard — is sitting back, doing shrooms, eating gluten-free kale chips or whatever the hell he does, Probably tripping balls and seeing the face of Allah again. Knowing full well he stole a win like a raccoon in a iHop dumpster. 

And Kyriacos? He’s punching drywall. Probably Googling “can you sue fantasy football commissioners for emotional damage.”

And let’s not ignore the real issue here: Kyriacos HATES losing to Chris. Not just because he lost. Not just because it was Week 1. No, no, no — it’s deeper than that. He despises Chris like a Texas steak despises tofu. And it all boils down to one thing: Chris likes men. That’s it. That’s the whole damn reason. That’s the beef.

Every time Chris wins, Kyriacos hears “Lady Gaga” in his head and sees rainbows in the air like it’s goddamn Pride Month. It drives him insane. He’d rather lose to a toddler playing with auto-draft than see Chris — in his perfectly moisturized glory — climb to 1-0.

So here we are. Week one. Chris is 1-0. Kyriacos is 0-1. D’Andre Swift is in witness protection.

And I’m Jerry Jones, watching this circus unfold like it's a Monday Night Meltdown special brought to you by Bud Light and broken dreams.

(I will be a champion one day again)

Hell of a week.