Week 14 arrived like a drunk uncle at Christmas: loud, shirtless, and demanding to know who still “controls their own destiny.” Playoff hopes were shattered like cheap ornaments. Fringe teams clawed at miracle scenarios. Bench decisions curdled stomachs. And Yahoo’s projections gaslit half the league into believing nonsense for three straight hours. But now the dust has settled, and the CMI regular season is dead. Some teams glide into the playoffs like elegant swans. Others belly-flop into the toilet bowl with the grace of a damp grocery bag full of hot soup. And a few… well, a few teams woke up this morning spooning regret and smelling faintly of Labatt Blue from the Gyros family birthday bash. Let’s get to the carnage.

Sam entered the final week needing a divine intervention, maybe even a handwritten note from the Pope himself, but instead received 17.5 from Achane and a polite 16 from Bates — the fantasy equivalent of a sympathy hug outside a bus station. Herbert tossed in 12 points that tasted like stale popcorn. Ham Stroker’s playoff hopes evaporated before RedZone even finished its first witching-hour montage. Kell, meanwhile, secured their postseason footing like a smug cat pushing another team off the counter. Aubrey dropped 23 in the most “how the hell is my kicker my best player?” way possible, Nico Collins punched in 20, and T-Law added 19 as if gently patting Sam on the head and whispering, “Maybe next year, sweetie.” Playoffs for Kell. A cold winter for the Ejacula.

Fran entered Week 14 like a bulldozer powered by Monster Energy and spite. Gibbs detonated for 33.5, Barkley slapped on 25 like he was settling an old debt, and Goff — immortal and terrifying in his mediocrity — casually tossed 22. The Hummers didn’t just punch their playoff ticket; they stormed the locomotive, overthrew the conductor, and are now steering it directly into the postseason. Heff got the full Josh Allen 38-point demon blast, but the rest of the Unluckies looked like they were already booking Cancun flights. Kyren’s 17 and Jacobs’ 16 tried, but this was a two-man rescue mission with a rope made of dental floss. The loss drops them just enough in the standings to spark existential dread.

The Misfits did just enough to protect their seeding with a crisp 25.5 from JSN — who finally decided to play like the guy you drunkenly declared would be WR1 in 2026. Stafford threw 24 points of pure dad-strength, and T. Loop tossed in a delicate 10 like a garnish on a cocktail nobody ordered. Gerv’s side gave 23 from Christian Watson before his hamstring burst into glitter, while Dike and Meyers scraped together 13.5 and 12. Jeanty-man exits the regular season the same way they entered it: unpredictable, dangerous, and always one week away from dropping 150 for absolutely no reason.

JJ went full scorched earth. Michael Wilson — yes, THAT one — erupted for 36.5 and now must be legally recognized as a WR deity. Prescott added 23, and the Seattle D/ST pitched in 22, presumably while committing several ranking-boosting war crimes. Jackalope Society ended their season like a half-deflated parade balloon. Pollard erupted for 36, DK spat out 23.5, and Elliott sprinkled 16, but a supporting cast of ghosts, tumbleweeds, and broken dreams held the team to 95.5. The Society finishes the year 2–12, which should qualify them for a tax credit or government assistance program.

Jabb slammed the door on the regular season like a man possessed. Puka nuked the earth with 37.5, Higgins chipped 24 like he was renegotiating his contract live on TV, and Jordan Love delivered 20 in his best “I swear I can be your QB1” audition. Ertz Wentz I Pee enters the postseason hotter than the fryer oil at the Gyros family birthday party. SC got decent work from Lamar (20), Warren (13.5), and J. Williams (13.5), but the season ended the way the team name promised: too little, too damn late. The toilet bowl awaits.

Coach Merritt took care of business AND somehow hosted a child’s first birthday party without burning down the house or the league standings. Etienne (20.5), Lamb (20), and AJB (18) marched the Gyros into the playoffs, likely still wearing their party hats. T-minus five minutes until the league WhatsApp is flooded with blurry pictures of someone drinking Labatt out of a sippy cup. Fred Durst put up a respectful 100 — Waddle (16.5), C. Brown (16.5), and Irving (14) — but ultimately fell just short, like a man trying to recreate the magic of “Nookie” at karaoke and running out of breath halfway through the chorus. Season over. Tips hat. Plays sad nu-metal outro.