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Required Listening

Ween - The Mollusk (1997) [Full Album]

Refused - The Shape Of Punk To Come (Full Album Stream)

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2025 NORM MACDONALD MEMORIAL BIBLE

Who the fuck?

Awards/Achievements

Aiden

Phone: (817) 526-2583

Aiden is the league’s youngest member and living proof that fantasy football is not getting better with each generation—it’s getting weirder. As Brandon’s son, he was born into the league’s madness and baptized in the group chat. Now he lurks in the wings, waiting for a slot to open like a teenage Grim Reaper with a stat tracker. His playstyle is pure chaos: highlight-reel logic, vibes-based trades, and a belief that “projection” is a slur.

Aiden is the final node in the league’s gossip pipeline, the last ear to hear every roast, rumor, and regret. But don’t mistake his youth for innocence. He’s a troll in training, armed with memes, vengeance, and absolutely no reverence for league veterans. Cross him once, and you’ll find your WR1 mysteriously cursed. Aiden isn’t here to learn. He’s here to ruin your week and laugh while doing it. Welcome to the future. It’s petty and terrifying.

Aiden

David Field

Phone: (940) 435-4003

David Field is the quiet monster in here. He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t post memes. He just wins—and then disappears like a disciplined contract killer with perfect cell reception. But don’t mistake the silence for mercy. David is watching, judging, and relaying every humiliating roster move to his wife… who tells Kate… who tells Aiden… who tells me. It’s fantasy football by way of kindergarten gossip, and we can only pray the messages are distorted by the time they return. Spoiler: they are superviolent.

What we hear back is brutal. Surgical. Unfiltered. David’s feedback comes secondhand and still hits harder than any trash talk in the group chat. He doesn’t need to gloat. The wins do it for him. The rest of us are playing fantasy football. David is running an intelligence operation. And if he ever publicly comments on your team? You’ve already lost.

David

Tim Buckley

Phone: (914) 438-0992

Tim Buckley is the East Coast philosopher of the Norm Macdonald Memorial League—measured, even-keeled, and operating on a frequency above our nonsense. Brought into the fold through Jerry, he quickly proved himself worthy of the digital cookout and now holds honorary uncle status: quiet, composed, and always watching you screw up in real time. Tim doesn’t panic. Tim doesn’t flex. Tim just sets a clean lineup and watches your ego crumble under the weight of your own projections.

Unfortunately, Tim also joined this league without understanding the psychological risk involved. He once opened his phone to find back-to-back nudes from Jeremy and Whit, and it’s been an uphill battle ever since. He’s still learning how to trust again. But when he wins—and he will—it won’t be loud. It’ll be with a casual “GG” and a reminder that dignity still has a place in fantasy football… even if this league tries its best to prove otherwise.

Rebecky

Phone: (940) 536-4287

Rebecca is a cold-blooded operator in the Norm Macdonald Memorial League—a player who won’t blink, won’t warn you, and absolutely will accept your pity trade, exploit your desperation, and feast on your misplaced mercy. She’s not loud in the chat. She’s not thirsty for attention. She just waits—quiet, calculating, and ready to pounce the moment your roster slips up. Ask anyone who’s been outmaneuvered by her at 11:59 a.m. It changes you.

She is wildly inconsistent, but that’s the problem—there’s no rhythm to when she strikes. Sometimes her team’s a ghost. Sometimes it’s a damn guillotine. And the second you assume it’s one of her “off weeks,” you wake up Monday morning to find she’s gutted your playoff chances and posted a single emoji in the chat. Just a knife. No caption. No remorse. Rebecca isn’t here to make friends. She’s here to remind you that trust is for the weak and second place is for idiots.

Rebecca (In Retirement)

Skot Camp

Phone: (817) 705-7568

Skot Camp is an alpha in every arena except this one. He’s my boss, trainer, and life-shaper—possibly even my spirit animal. But the second Skot sets a lineup, all bets are off. The man has winning in his blood, but unfortunately, that blood keeps drafting backup RBs on contract years. Make no mistake though: when the stars align, Skot has what it takes to destroy this league emotionally, spiritually, and tactically. And we live in constant fear of that outcome.

Despite his real-life dominance, nobody wants to see Skot’s team succeed. Not because he doesn’t deserve it. But because he knows he does. If Skot ever wins the championship, he’ll be up your ass—and not in a fun way. In a “mandatory team workouts” kind of way. In a “send your trade offer in five reps or less” kind of way. Skot is power, loyalty, and protein powder—but in fantasy football? He’s still just another target.

Skot

Levi Black-man

Phone: (817) 374-0955

Levi Black-man is my best friend for life and the league’s original cautionary tale. He won it all his first season—pure, uncut beginner’s luck—and then fell into a steady rhythm of steady decline, fatherhood, and fantasy irrelevance. The grey hairs arrived. But still, he shows up. He drafts with purpose. And he keeps believing this is the year he gets back to the mountaintop, as if destiny works in reverse.

A retired wild man, Levi once took drugs and participated in group sex in college—so the fact that he now texts “Need a TE” at 7:42 a.m. while holding a toddler is the kind of emotional whiplash that keeps this league grounded. He is the embodiment of washed-up greatness, a former champion turned dad-mode philosopher who can still torch you in a random week when the spirit moves him. He might not win again. But if he does, we’ll never hear the end of it—and we kind of hope it happens just to see the chaos.

Levi 

Jerry Roberts

Phone: (626) 826-5539

Jerry Roberts is the league’s East Coast elder, our grizzled historian, and a living link to my late father—a bond that’s earned him love, respect, and absolutely no mercy when it comes to fantasy slander. His teams are like ancient leather-bound novels: dignified, questionable in parts, and wise.

Known for late-night decisions made under heavy influence and light regret, Jerry treats waiver claims like confessional booths and trades like Cold War diplomacy. He doesn’t brag. He doesn’t explain. He just quietly sneaks into the postseason every year while your team implodes from hubris. Jerry is the league’s grumpy Gandalf—smarter than he lets on, tired of your bullshit, and probably winning while calling you “pal” and forgetting his login. Long live the legend.


Jerry

Whit

Phone: (214) 205-4812

Whit is the smartest hillbilly in here. A man who drafts like a Wall Street analyst but roots for teams like the Jaguars out of what can only be described as self-harm. He is a statistical savant wrapped in a Bass Pro hoodie, capable of identifying breakout rookies before ESPN even learns their names.

While Jeremy may have started the nudes scandal, Whit finished it—with tasteful nudes of his own. Framed, filtered, artful. He brags about them openly, calling it “fantasy football diplomacy.” And honestly? It worked. Whit is the league’s chaotic neutral: no hometown bias, no allegiance to conventional logic, just cold-blooded waiver-wire moves and deeply cursed draft preferences. If he ever wins the league, we’ll all be forced to endure a Jags-themed acceptance speech—and worse, we’ll probably enjoy it.

Whit

Kate “Brady”

Phone: (682) 553-6753

Kate “Brady” knows football better than most of the men in this league—she just chooses to forget that knowledge until 11:58 a.m. on Sundays. Trained in the dark arts by her ex-husband (me), and high-proof bourbon therapy, she could run circles around this league if she felt like it. But mostly, she drafts like a surgeon, sets her lineup two minutes before kickoff, and still wins enough to keep everyone nervous.

She is the spiritual embodiment of “I forgot it was Sunday” energy, except somehow her flex play is always right. No group chat banter, no excuses, just quiet, occasional excellence and a warning: if Kate ever logs in consistently for 16 weeks, the rest of you are in real trouble.


Kate

Katie McClammons

Phone: (215) 876-7933

Katie McClammons is the league’s silent juggernaut—the kind of manager who drafts with precision, glides through the regular season like a panther in yoga pants, and then spectacularly explodes in the playoffs like a Ford Pinto filled with hope. She’s the league’s cautionary tale and its looming threat, a reminder that greatness is real… and so is collapse. Every year she finishes with a solid record, and every year she’s eliminated by someone who may as well have autodrafted.

A lifelong Cowboys fan with a handdrawn Tony Romo shrine (don’t ask about the whips, chains, or rubber sheets), Katie knows ball. She’s also married to Frank, but we’re all pretty sure she secretly manages both teams while Frank runs interference by debating Phish virtue in the group chat. If she ever survives past Round 1 of the playoffs, the league may need to reformat entirely. Until then, she remains our regular season champion… and postseason ghost.

Katie

Jeb

Phone: (817) 707-1630

Jeremy is the fantasy football equivalent of a firework show in a drought zone—spectacular, explosive, and absolutely guaranteed to backfire. Every draft, he walks away with a roster so dangerous analysts consider issuing travel advisories. And yet… by Week 5, his bench is full of injuries, half his starters have been benched IRL, and he’s lost three games by a combined total of 0.94 points. And we all know the day is coming when this man stops losing out of sheer vengeance.

Winner of the league’s prestigious Most Improved Trophy, Jeremy is everyone’s dark horse to take it all—until he trades his RB1 for a defense with “upside.” He also holds the league record for unsolicited nudes sent to Whit even after learning Whit is a dude, which speaks to either his loyalty, his optimism, or his poor impulse control. Possibly all three. If Jeremy ever wins this thing, the world might end. But it’ll be a glorious ending. 

Jeremy

Frank

Phone: (267) 236-3276

Some say Frank was forged in the parking lot of Lincoln Financial Field during a blizzard with nothing but a cheesesteak and anger. Others say he just won a raffle. Either way, he landed in this league and has spent every season since trying to convince people that his 8th-round sleeper is “about to pop off.”

A prolific trash talker and self-proclaimed music scholar, Frank insists Phish is better than Ween—a take so unhinged it’s currently being reviewed by the Hague. His trade offers come with full legal disclaimers and a link to an Eagles hype video from 2017. But make no mistake: Frank is here to win… and remind you he’s from Philly… and yell “Let’s fucking go!” over a TE2 snag on waivers. He’s riding the wave, baby—and if that wave drowns us all in green confetti and bandcamp links, well… that’s just life in the Gulag.

Frank

Brandon Brady

Phone: (940) 395-4517

Brandon Brady is the founder, Kommissioner, and unchallenged architect of the Fantasy Football Gulag™—a place where ambition is weaponized and remorse is optional. He once called a midseason “Recommitment Ceremony,” passed around communion wafers from a repurposed Altoids tin, and made each manager read aloud the worst trade they’d accepted. No music. No talking. Just shame echoing off the walls. When one league member said, “This league is making me spiral,” Brandon didn’t speak—he just smirked, looked down at his team stacked with handcuffs, and clicked “Add Player.”

Every season he returns like a war crime with WiFi. His team names read like rejected Dostoevsky titles. His pre-draft prep includes an exorcism of hope and a ranking system known only as “The Doctrine.” He believes every waiver claim is a blood pact and every loss a moral failure. You don’t win the Gulag. You survive it.

Brandon Brady, kommissioner

2025 Pre-Draft Preseason Predictions

https://docs.google.com/document/d/18GphIw5OHFBgCn9YQqBxr7WqY9EhPrvFB5daZKfKW-s/edit?usp=drivesdk

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Who the fuck?

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