THROW YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR AND WAVE 'EM LIKE YOU JUST DON'T CARE!

That's right, friends. As of this week, I now know what it feels like to be a winner. After years of frustrating defeats and near misses and disappointments and unexpected kicks to the nuts, I finally -- FINALLY -- won a fantasy title last week, the very first one of my career.

In the name of Nate Odomes, let us all remove our shoes and join hands and sing kumbayah around a campfire. For this, my friends, is more than just a stupid fantasy title. This means that I am no longer a failure. It means the playoff-choker label I've carried all my life -- partly because I'm a fan of the Bills, Sonics, and Braves, mostly because I've, well, always choked in the playoffs -- is no longer a part of me like so many scars on Edward James Olmos's face.

It means I have conquered my playoff demons. I have seen the mountaintop. And it is good.

As we say here in New York -- yeeeeah, dwog.

I have so many people to thank for this triumph. I would like to thank the girlfriend I don't have, without whom this has all been possible. I want to thank the members of my league; you were all good, I was just a lot better. I want to thank Bret Boone, because he reminds me every day that as worthless as I am in this world, there are men out there who are even more worthless. I would like to thank Jackie Robinson, because without him, Barry Bonds and Derrek Lee would not have been on my team.

Most of all, I want to thank the scars on Edward James Olmos's face, because I was really struggling to find a metaphor four paragraphs ago until I thought of them.