You know these guys: On draft day, they’re carting reams of spreadsheets, pulling up numerous cheatsheets simultaneously on their laptops, and they are still armed with outdated magazines. These guys fear (not so secretly) if they lacked any one of these resources it would cripple their draft. They may well have busted their arses to prep for every round in minutiae, but they’re wound up so tight that every unexpected turn – and there are almost always a couple of surprise choices during the course of the day – leave that retentive part of their anatomy twitching so uncontrollably, they could beat Calvin Johnson’s 20-yard shuttle time on the way to the bathroom. I really enjoy getting under the skin of the control freaks, because at least one of them misses out on an obvious choice—it’s usually the guy sitting next to me—and I can scoop him up as I pour myself another drink!

But these owners who twet more than Waldo from Van Halen’s Hot For Teacher video aren’t the only ones I target. I want the other guys toasted, too. Knowing the way some of the guys in my league draft, they would actually benefit from having a drink or two in them. Getting them loaded is almost a public service I’m offering—except I want them one or two drinks past loosened up…

First I buy everyone in my league a snack and a drink—this year it’s going to be a big bag of spicy barbecue pork rinds and a 40-ounce malt liquor. It’s human nature—no wants to see good alcohol (or, even, malt liquor) get skunky. And how will they say no to those pork rinds? Get 10-16 guys in a room together with the drinks flowing and I don’t care if half of them eat caviar and drink 40-year old Scotch at cocktail parties twice a week, pork rinds are a right of manhood.

And that’s what you tell these sissified “kept men” that used to be your college buddies. Because one you get them to question their manhood, the pork rinds are going down the hatch. Remember, peer pressure is the game—and questioning manhood once or twice will work wonders. Just phrase it as a joke and while they laugh at your humorous questioning of their manhood, they’ll casually start shoveling down the salted pig parts. Just don’t do it too much because you’ll seem too obnoxious and become the douche everyone begins to ignore.

Once they’re loading up on the salty “man food”, I compliment their wise draft selections “Hell yeah, Keyshawn’s gonna put up huge numbers again this year,” or “You bet – no one throws the deep ball like Aaron Brooks.” The smell of success—and laughter from those who know better but need to hide their snickering—will encourage further drinking. That’s when I break out my secret weapon: wine.

Nothing says Fantasy Football draft day like a good, Chablis. Seriously? Yeah, seriously! I know you’re thinking beer, but at this point you’ve grain fed them like cattle ready for slaughter. You want to change it up. All you need is two or three of these guys to bite and one of them will have drafted three kickers by round seven—guaranteed! “Screw them, you can’t have too many Grammaticas on your roster—Cheers!”

This fest inevitably ends, but the memories will be cherished long after the spreadsheets are torn, laptops shut off, and magazines relegated to the crapper. By this point, you should be hearing a few of your opponents already talking about trades, waiver wire order, and maybe even next year. When this happens, I know success is mine. Of course sometimes it doesn’t work. If that’s the case this year, then next year I’ll have to break out the old episodes of Dancing with the Stars (the Emmitt episodes, of course). That will get anyone thirsty…