Rotisserie Roast

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.

You are, of course, a fantasy baseball geek.

All you care about is your pretend world of major league players and their stats. You root for numbers, not teams. You have depersonalized the game, sucked the life out of it; all so you can say you took $100 off your former friends.

It's not just baseball. Fifteen percent of Americans over 18 have been in one fantasy sports league or another. There are leagues for golf, NASCAR, even professional fishing. Dammit, honey, not now! I'm doing my smelt projections!

And you know you're hopelessly addicted when....

You go to your league draft meeting wearing a cup.

You don't come out to watch your kids hunt for Easter eggs because you are prepping for the draft.

In bed you ask your wife to call you "the commissioner."

You realize the only person you haven't "activated" all season is yourself.

You conduct your draft in the Situation Room of the White House (Sandy Berger, Washington, D.C.).