"Fantasy" Football

Jeff sighed as he settled into his La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, ready for some well-earned football. He picked up the remote, thumb poised over the power button. A simple press, and—

FLASH!

He squinted at the choppy light. He mashed the clicker again. Nothing.

Then, the buttons started shifting, their icons morphing into incomprehensible symbols. Chinese characters, animal shapes, fruits, abstract squiggles. What the hell?

Jeff blinked rapidly, convinced he had blown a fuse. “Why is there a kangaroo button?” he shouted. “Where’s the volume?”

He pressed one. A dolphin squeaked. Another button farted. Another triggered the sultry, “Come watch me.”

“What the—? Tim! Jessica! The clicker’s broken!”

His teenagers shuffled into the room, unimpressed.

“Oh, Dad,” Tim said. “Just press the Barbalog button.”

“The what?” Jeff massaged his temples. “Am I having a stroke?”

“No, Dad. Come on. The Barbalog button! Or try the squid one for underwater football. It’s better anyway.”

Jeff’s eye twitched. “Who made this crap?”

Tim only laughed. “You’re supposed to know this stuff. Look—this one turns on the leaf blower. The unicorn button alphabetizes the DVDs. And if you hit the mushroom button—”

“Don’t hit the mushroom button,” Jessica interjected.

“Press the spaghetti, please!” His wife called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready!”

Jeff stared at the remote, now crammed with hundreds of tiny pasta-shaped buttons. He hesitated, then jabbed the rigatoni-shaped icon. Spaghetti people erupted on the TV, swinging forks as they performed the Macarena. A meatball tornado swirled around them.

BANG!

“Whoa!” Jeff craned his neck.

A family-sized bowl of spaghetti had plopped onto the kitchen island.

His wife, utterly unfazed, called back, “Relax. We’ve had that button for years, hon. How else would I make pasta?”

“What’s wrong?” His daughter asked. “Did you electrocute yoursel—”

“That’s enough, Jess,” his wife hollered. “Leave Dad alone.” A drawer creaked open. “Help me set the table. Forks and knives,” she said, “here.” The silverware clinked between their hands. “You too, Tim! Plates and napkins, please.”

Jeff watched his son leave the room, his hope going with him. He gripped the remote like a pool noodle in rough water. “I just… want… my game.”

He muttered to himself as he tried to rationalize the insanity. “This one’s a cogwheel. So… settings?” He pressed it and nearly shat his pants. The ceiling fan exploded into confetti.

Jeff clenched even tighter. He wanted to break the damn thing but settled for another swig of beer instead.

“Please… just work,” he begged the remote as if it were alive.

Finally, the game flickered on.

Except—

It wasn’t quite right.

On the screen, quarterback Harry Potter scanned the field, wand raised. But before he could get the pass off, Thanos sacked him with a sickening crunch.

“Oh, Shit!” Jeff recoiled at the wizard’s mangled limbs. “Reparo!” He shouted at the TV.

“FLAG ON THE PLAY,” the announcer droned. “THOSE WATCHING AT HOME ARE REMINDED NOT TO INTERFERE.”

Jeff choked on his beer. Huh?

The football game went on. Well, there was no ball. It was an egg. No, wait—it hatched. A chicken squawked, flapped wildly, and sprinted downfield before curling back into its shell.

Wide receiver Ringo Starr—an actual octopus—drummed on referee Bill Gates’s belly. Bill smiled, his right hand puppeteering Kermit the Frog, who was administering a Covid vaccine to a zygote. Dollar signs gleamed in Gates’s eyes.

Jeff rubbed his neck. “Who made this guy a fucking doctor?”

The rest of the offense was stranger. Kaladin Stormblessed hovered mid-air, looking both graceful and deeply depressed. The Trix Rabbit refused to run his route until he got his fix of highly processed kid poison.

An Oompa Loompa caught a pass and immediately burst into song about the importance of bobsledding. That part wasn’t so bad, actually. Compared to the demented defense.

Cornerback Darth Vader Force-choked Inigo Montoya, who cried for his daddy. Freddy Krueger simultaneously sprung a dream trap on Sonic. Blood oozed from the line of scrimmage. Ganondorf laughed maniacally.

“Not the Hedgehog! Where’s the call, ref?”

“VIEWERS AT HOME ARE AGAIN REMINDED TO REMAIN SILENT TO AVOID PENALTIES.”

Can he… hear me? “Penalties?”

“YES. PENALTIES. NOW SHUT UP AND WATCH. OR GO HELP YOUR WIFE MAKE DINNER.”

Make dinner?

Jaime Lannister changed teams mid-play, switching his allegiances like a leaf in a cyclone. Even Cersei abandoned her pom-poms after his fifth betrayal.

Dracula stood motionless, occasionally sipping life force from a beanie baby.

Nobody cared about the football—or egg, or chicken… or egg?—anymore. They were all more focused on side activities.

Methuselah, a 4,856-year-old pine tree from California, kept growing outward, vastly limiting the offense’s passing game.

Elmo sang a song for every tackle. Fans flung themselves from the stands; sweet death preferable to the muppet’s squealing voice.

A talking watermelon lectured the audience on the perils of monocrop agriculture. Jeff found himself annoyed but in agreement.

Finally, after an unintelligible series of plays, Rand al’Thor, Rincewind, Samwise Gamgee, Tom Badgerlock, and Donkey Kong blocked a blitz. Well… Rincewind flinched and froze, but still. Harry Potter—now boneless as a buffalo wing—cast the egg-ball into the sky in a desperate Hail Mary.

Silence fell.

A massive dragon swooped in and devoured the “ball” mid-pass with a roaring burp. The crowd booed. A fan waved a flag reading, “Eggs Are Egg-Spensive!”

The scoreboard flashed: 10-10. The image of a cookie eating itself overlayed the screen.

“Who is this for?” Jeff mumbled.

“NOT YOU, JEFF. YOU’VE EARNED A TIMEOUT.”

The TV cut to static.

“No!” Jeff screamed. “Ellen!”

The remote vibrated violently. Thousands of batteries poured from its back, burying Jeff in a cascading heap of double-A’s. He gasped for breath, his La-Z-Boy groaning under the impossible weight.

Is this the end?

His wife, completely indifferent, strolled into the room. “Broken again, huh? Oh, well.” She cracked open a fresh beer and set it beside him. “At least it made the noodles.” She kissed his cheek. “Sauce’ll be ready in five.”