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Rotisserie Roast
Rick Reilly
April 22, 2002
You smell like a goat. You're unshaven. You work endless hours in dimly lit caves. You speak a language understood only by others of your kind. You fear women and put prices on men's heads. And legions of enemies long to destroy you.
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April 22, 2002

Rotisserie Roast

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You hope to get the house to yourself at night so you can call a 1-900 fantasy baseball line.

You curse the Internet sites with live box scores for refreshing only every 30 seconds.

You cut and paste together your official team photo.

Your witty conversation begins to run the gamut from your fantasy baseball team to your fantasy football team.

In the last hour of the weekly trade deadline you instruct your secretary to put through only calls from fantasy league players.

In the maternity ward you make a good trade in between your wife's contractions.

The number 1-800-BOXSCOR is on your speed dial.

And your girlfriend's number isn't.

You utter the sentence, "Honey, I'm up to 3,129th out of 8,000 in the Jackpot.com fantasy league!"

You wonder if you could get a tan from monitor glow.

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