Power Rankings

Sqwid’s vessel cuts through divisional waters with violent precision, tearing apart anything in its wake and charting a near certain course toward one of the coveted playoff BYEs. Yet, beneath the surface, the PRC detects a quiver in the tentacles and a tremor in command. There has been restless correspondence with the front office—dispatches flying like distress flares before the trade winds die. It’s clear Sqwid knows this ship, mighty though it is, cannot reach the Championship without hoisting fresh canvas and tightening the rigging.

Bo made his outrage known—furious at the PRC’s flippant disregard for Taylor’s prolific output earlier in the season. He demanded they journey to the Cinelândia, bow before the Cacique, and atone for their transgressions. The PRC declines such theatrics, yet concedes one truth: Taylor was the Estrella of the draft, a force capable of carrying Bo to a second star. Still, for that prophecy to be fulfilled, #28 in blue must find the end zone when the lights burn brightest.

One son down, one still standing. Jeff is eyeing a clean sweep through his sons before teeing off against the nephews, hoping to ride a wave of momentum through the back nine of this long, punishing season. But his bag looks a little lighter now—Kraft’s injury has taken away a trusted iron, Dobbins is limping down the fairway, and aside from Ladd, Jeff’s wideouts can’t seem to find the green in regulation. Still, this is no time for shanks or chili-dips. Every stroke counts.

Boner was recently spotted at FCC, where he couldn’t help but notice Dr. Fulton’s mane billowing majestically in the Board of Trustees photo—a follicular tour de force. Meanwhile, Pass and HODL’s own coiffure has lost its luster. With a concussion-shaken Dart and a wide receiver corps shedding faster than autumn leaves, this roster looks like it’s been subscribing to HIMS for more than just the standard blue rhinos. The PRC, along with the rest of the league, can see the receding hairline of a once-proud franchise that used to sprout strong, confident players. Sure, every fantasy team ages and thins with time, but when you look at Dr. Joe’s flowing locks, you’re reminded that some heads are simply built for championships. Others are not.

Parker’s team might be thinning up top and his dome is getting chilly, but the Seals are surfacing—thick-skinned, Bear-like, and unbothered by the seasonal cold. Speaking of Bears, Caleb looks every bit the fantasy winner, and this squad shows no fear heading into the family division stretch. The PRC can report that there’s been some chirping from Philly—too bad it wasn’t on WeChat for all to hear.

If Jesse earns a second star, the PRC would humbly note they played a modest supporting role—no need for gifts, perhaps just a well-deserved pat on the back—for guiding NFL MVP Matthew Stafford into the starting lineup and relegating CJ Stroud to his natural habitat: the Ohio State QB bench (which usually then leads to the Canadian Football League). Unlike Bo, whose disdain for the PRC deepens by the day, Jesse understands what John Lennon once did—sometimes you get by with a little help from your friends.

As the PRC noted last week, this version of Tony’s team isn’t cut from the usual cloth. He’s eking out wins he would’ve fumbled away in past seasons, his roster is remarkably intact where it’s normally bleeding red, and he’s managing to keep (relatively) composed through the weekend chaos. But like David staring down the Goliath of his division, every stone from that slingshot has to find its mark—because one miss, and the giants will come crashing down on him.

Jeff made Billy feel rather small, A father exposing the fraud of it all. DJ was cursed, Bowers’ powers reversed— Now the conspiracist’s been axed by his own cabal.

This is the run Keith knows he must make—the long, merciless stretch of the Iditarod where the horizon seems to move farther away with every stride. The White Wolves press on, but even the strongest pack can only run so fast when last night’s meatloaf sits like ballast in the gut. On the back of the sled, he stares at his roster all day, the glow of the screen replacing any sense of professional obligation, muttering under his breath, “How? How? How can this team not win?”

The White Ghost’s defense now feels as tangible as a puff of ectoplasm. Early in the season, Sean’s squad was pure paranormal chaos—haunting stronger rosters, making fantasy apps flicker, and leaving opponents wondering who they were gonna call. But even the most spirited run can’t last forever. The readings on the PKE meter are spiking, Dr. Venkman’s rattling on the piano keys again, and the White Ghosts hate that. Now, one by one, Sean's hopes and dreams of repeat are being drawn into Egon’s containment trap—proof that no haunting, however terrifying, can escape the laws of ghostly entropy.

Finally, a Tuesday that didn’t bleed blue. One can only hope the skies over Fort Myers shared the sentiment—clear and bright enough for Yanni to greet his chickens and head to work with something resembling optimism in his beleaguered step. Such is the tragicomedy of the Keith Division: Yanni wins once and rockets to third. But as this blurb has argued all season, this is no 3-7 roster. The PRC still expects this team to claw its way into the Giorgio Cup conversation—because somewhere beneath the wreckage, there’s still a contender’s heart beating.

Boner flew back to the States for what could only be described as a summit of suffering—a therapeutic luncheon at Rossilli’s where two members of the Piss Poor Four gathered to pick through the crumbs of their ruined seasons. The agenda was straightforward: first, how to process a DelFL campaign that curdled faster than milk in the Thai sun; and second, how to cleanse the soul afterward in Bangkok. On that front, Boner is practically Freud—by the seventh hole he’s reached full enlightenment, blissfully unaware of his scorecard, his fantasy scores, not to mention which city he's in again.

How did Humpty Dumpty persuade the King to marshal all the King’s horses and all the King’s men—a full royal task force—to gallop across the realm just to reassemble his cracked ego and shattered shell? The man must’ve been a master of persuasion, or blackmail. And really, why was he even up there? Stay off the wall, Humpty. And while we’re rewriting history—don’t draft Brian Thomas either.

The concussed Marvin Mims trotted off the field early Thursday night — a fitting image for a stable that’s long since pulled up from contention. Stinky’s Dark Horse has fallen out of the running entirely, nowhere near the money, the Giorgio Cup, can't even get an apple or bucket of barley. The only thing left for this weary jockey is to study the bloodlines — Bijan, Taylor, and CMAC — and hope next season’s draft brings a thoroughbred capable of getting this franchise back on the track.

Five losses — The Snake’s still on board, This team’s toe continues to be sore. Darnold took a nap, Pittman can only clap — Only Thai beaches can promise Randy more.