Bold Predictions for the 2023 NFL Season

Every year, NFL “experts” make bold predictions, and every year those predictions are as valuable as a pair of skidmarked Spiderman underoos. They want credit when they happen to be right, but won’t bear any responsibility when they’re wrong.

But not your boy, King Little Dick. As you can see from years past, I stand behind my bold predictions. They’re something you can bank on. They make cryptocurrencies and even US greenbacks look like the iou’s of a four-year-old. In certain dark areas of the web, they’re even used to facilitate the trafficking of drugs, humans, and 1986 Topps baseball cards.

Cause they’re always fuckin’ right.

Having said that, I made four bold predictions last year, and the results were mixed.

I predicted that Josh Allen would finish outside the Top 10. He was #2. Not quite outside the Top 10, but at least he wasn’t #1. Partial credit.

I predicted that Daniel Jones, who at the time was being drafted as the #22 QB, would finish in the Top 10. He did. #9. Of course. I fucking rule!

I predicted that Brandon Aiyuk, who was being drafted as the #35 WR, would finish in the Top 12. He finished at #15. C’mon, that’s pretty damn close. 99% credit.

My final prediction was that Jerry Jeudy, #25 in ADP at the time, would finish as the overall #1 WR. Not only was this arguably my boldest prediction, it was also arguably my wrongest. He finished 18th. A decent chunk below #25, but a distant cry from #1. In my defense, however, I had no idea that his QB, Russel Wilson, would turn into such a noodle-armed wiener. Partial credit.

Totally JK about the partial credit crap. I’m not some weaselly pass-the-bucker, I’m King Little Dick.

Last year, I went a measly 1 for 4. No ifs ands or buts about it. Not only have I already purchased 31 “I’m With Stupid” t-shirts for people I’m with to wear, but I also bought a dozen cans of novelty fart spray to wear as perfume.

I deserve nothing less, and I promise to make it up to you this year. You can bet your pornography stash on it. If I make even one mistake, I will wear nothing buy a thong to work for six months straight.

So without any further ado, here are my bold but sure-as-shit-dead-on predictions for this year:

#1. Samaje Perine, RB for the Denver Broncos, who is currently the 40th RB on the Fantasy Pros ADP ranking, will finish in the Top 16.

Why?

Because the dude is a stud. His butt muscles are as hard as a cast-iron grill. You could cook filet mignon on that ass. Them muscles are made for miles of rushing and receiving.

These are not Samaje Perine’s butt muscles. These are flabby old buttflaps. You could cut glass on Perine’s butt muscles.

#2. Christian Watson, 2nd-year WR for the Green Bay Fudgepackers, who is currently WR #20, won’t even finish in the Top 40.

Why?

Because Jordon Love, his QB, is sub-par, and Watson, hisself, is a phony. He’ll be found out this year.

Hear that? That’s the sound of everyone booing me because I suck this year.

#3. Here comes a double whammy that’s gonna hit you like a punch to the gut. Or liver. Or kidney. Whatever organ you don’t like being punched in.

(i) The Atlanta Falcons will win the NFC South. By itself, this is not so bold, because they’re the #2 favorite to take the crown, but like I said, there’s more.

and

(ii) The Chicago Bears will win the NFC North. My favorite NFL talking head, Ross Tucker, predicts them to finish last at 6-11. All the bookmakers have them at 3rd or 4th.

Why will these two predictions, which combine to form a single eye-poppingly bold prediction, come true?

Because I said so.

David slaying Goliath. It’s an allegory. Because I said so.

#4. In his Week 9 game against the Minnesota Vikings, Justin Fields, QB for the upstart Chicago Bears, while streaking down the sideline without a defender in sight, will suddenly crumble to the ground, clutching his left knee. Tests will reveal tears to both his ACL and MCL. Season over for the burgeoning superstar.

I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up. This isn’t Justin Fields. But it will be.

I hate to pat my own back, but no one else will even touch me, so I’ve got to do it. No other NFL “expert” has the balls to not only predict an injury, but to specify the type and timing. I’ve got balls for days, bruthas.

“But wait, King Little Dick,” you say. “If Fields annihilates his knee halfway through the season, how can CHI win the NFC North?”

Good question. Jerkface.

Despite this ostensible contradiction, I guarantee that all four of my bold predictions are gonna be the cat’s ass this year. So sell some sperm, sell a kidney, sell a kid. Get ahold of as much money as you can and bet it on my divinations.

Use the proceeds to buy an island in the Pacific, and name it after me: King Little Dick

You’re welcome.