I’m quoting the entire thing from his column today about how fantasy football is broken. I’m quoting the entire thing so you can see that he literally went from telling people how “lame” it is to tell bad beat fantasy to doing exactly that.

Here’s the definition of a boring fantasy story that should conclude with the person being tasered for telling it: “I lost by three points last week. Craziest story — I went into Monday night knowing I needed 11 points from Gates. He has 65 yards with two minutes to go. San Diego is on the 4-yard line, they throw it to him over the middle … TACKLED ON THE 1! Can you believe that?”

Here’s when I zoned out: right after “I lost by three points last week.”

TALES FROM THE LEAGUE OF DORKS
With our AL keeper team stuck in another rebuilding season, my buddy Hench and I restocked our roster with six mega-prospects: Carlos Santana, Justin Smoak, Martin Perez, Desmond Jennings, Eric Hosmer and Dustin Ackley. Santana was our favorite: a switch-hitting catcher who gets on base and hits for power. We have him for $5 next year, then $10 in 2012 and 2013. Santana and Daniel Bard (Boston’s future closer, and our property through 2012) were our only 2010 major league players that brought me any joy. We dumped everyone else. I even found myself flipping over to Cleveland games for Santana’s at-bats.

Fast-forward to Monday night: He’s playing in Boston, the Indians are winning by four in the seventh, there’s one out, somebody singles, and our atrocious third-base coach (Tim Bogar, in a dead heat with Wendell Kim and Dale Sveum as Boston’s worst third-base coach of my lifetime) sends Ryan Kalish, who’s about to get thrown out by 10 feet. Santana stupidly blocks the plate with his left leg at a 45-degree angle. In retrospect, he should have just drawn a bull’s-eye on it. Boom. It’s a Theismann/LT collision. Santana’s left leg does a 180 twist like the female vampire who had her head flipped around in “True Blood.”

I’m watching the game live and scream “Nooooooooooo!” so loudly my wife ran into the room because she thought one of our kids got hurt. (“No, honey — it’s just my favorite League of Dorks guy.”) Carlos rolls around in the dirt, sits up glumly, has his pant leg ripped off, has the doctors massage his mangled knee, then gets driven off on a golf cart as the fans applaud. A devastating 10 minutes. I felt bad for Santana, bad for Kalish, bad for Indians fans (and by the way, there’s really no doubt at this point that God hates Cleveland), bad for me, bad for Hench … and even bad for Tim Bogar, just because he’s worse at his job than anyone else is at anything else.

A three-paragraph “woe is me” fantasy baseball story, immediately after shitting on exactly that. Simmons is fucking beyond parody at this point.