You know how I know a player is going to be great? Because he’s done it before. Greatness is eternal, like our family dog Unitas, whose stuffed body is nailed to the living room floor. He’s been snarling for years, that good old dog, drinking Dad’s special everclear-tequila drink when Dad is feeling generous while he’s crawling around naked on summer afternoons.

“Talk to me, you fucking mutt,” Dad screams. He’s hilarious like that.

Unitas proves there is no time. He’s been the same forever. There’s no need to go further, but I will, since–if all goes according to plan–you paid upwards of $10,000 to read this infallible guide for how to disembowel your fantasy football league mates and keep them alive while they watch you feast on their innards. Metaphorically speaking, mostly.

Fantasy analysts are always trying to push “sleepers” on the unsuspecting masses who really just want to draft the best and forget the rest–to draft like a red-blooded American, in other words. They literally just start throwing out names of players and hope they stick, with no proof whatsoever that they can actually succeed?

Sure, these analysts (emphasis on the first four letters, and that’s not a homophobic comment, just saying) might be able to show how a running back has the opportunity to succeed in some damn offense run by a snot-nosed head coach’s son from the NFL’s aristocracy, but how can they sleep at night when said running back has never before been elite? How can we know he can be great if he’s never been great? We can’t. And anyone who says differently prays to the devil and probably wants a woman to be president, if that’s actually legal. It probably is because, you know, Obama’s daughters and everything.

I’d rather bank on what I’ve seen. And the fact that there is no such thing as time, unless you’re a complete moron. Show me a man who knows time is a fiction and I’ll show you a man who never learned which hand of the clock points to the minutes and doesn’t give a shit about it even when Dad laughs until he passes out on the couch.

Fantasy football owners bail on “old” guys because they believe age is a key factor is determining who can keep on keeping on, as some dirty, freedom-despising hippie might have said like eighty years ago during the Vietnam or Cambodia war or whatever President Reagan won. Tear down that wall? Hell yes, and it’s time to tear down the walls of your time-centric approach to fantasy football.

You might point to a guy like Michael Turner and say that “time” – whatever that is – caught up with the once-great running back. But no one mentions that Turner literally couldn’t stop getting arrested and then ate so much that the size of his butt prevented him from leaving home. The dude was bedridden because his ass got so goddamned large.

As fantasy owners, we can’t help that. Was I the one stuffing Arby’s sandwiches down Turner’s throat at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday? No.

The analysts say Turner’s age and workload caught up with him. Here’s my response: Whatthefuckever. His gigantic ass and penchant for getting nabbed by the cops caught up with him. But no, they say “time” had something to do with it. Too bad scientists have already shown that humans aren’t even capable of tracking time, which is what I told everyone that morning when I undid Unitas’ feet from the living room floor and carried him to the local dog park. Adults and their kids were screaming and stuff when I tried to introduce Unitas to a few of them and their “live” dogs, and a police officer had a problem with it so she tasered me a few times when I told her I would literally kill someone for Unitas. And yes, the cop was a woman. A woman.

If I’ve said it three hundred times, I’ve said it twice: Nice country we used to have here.

You can see that refusing to believe in “time,” as brainless idiots call it, makes for a tough life sometimes. I’m a dissident, like some of the greatest men in history, including Ronnie Reagan. I can call him Ronnie because I have his poster on the ceiling above my bed. I’ll tell you this much: That’s made for more than a few freedom-loving trickle-down nights.

The point is pretty simple here, folks: if you believe in time, you will never get the best and forget the rest. You’ll pretend that the passage of seconds and minutes and hours is a real thing, that Unitas is not actually alive, and that a player wears down at some point during his existence on this earth we call the United States of America.

Look at how some morons are talking about Adrian Peterson, who is almost as great a child abuser as he is a football player. I’m just saying that he’s elite in both respects–beating kids until they bleed, AND shedding tacklers on the gridiron … inflicting untold pain and fear into innocent babies and children, AND bursting through the offensive line with unparalleled determination … creating a world of abject misery for children who probably have nightmares about the all-pro runner beating them until they wish for death, AND scoring touchdowns for the one-yard line. He’s the fucking best at both things: making the world a worse place simply by being alive AND scoring fantasy points. Boom.

So anyway, some people out there think that it actually matters that Peterson has carried the ball more than 2,000 times and turned 30 years old last March. That might make sense if we were talking about a human being. But here’s what they don’t understand, and what my entire analysis hinges on: Peterson is a superhuman—not subject to the terror of time. They say time is undefeated. Well, I can tell you for a fact that Peterson is going to hand time its first loss in 2015.

It boils down to the undeniable fact that Peterson has done it before, and he’ll do it again. To say otherwise isn’t just stupid–indeed, it’s the dumbest fucking thing a person has ever uttered. Our analysis should always hinge on our understanding of which humans are regular humans and which are superhumans. This is literally the most logical take in fantasy football.

My good buddy Ryan once told me that time is to the clock what north is to south after he huffed glue for like 45 minutes. That made a lot of sense to me, and on a side note, that glue was really strong and gave me a headache that made me legitimately go blind for close to an hour. I appreciate Ryan’s advice on the fiction we call “time” even if I wish he sometimes wore pants or underwear so I didn’t associate everything he says with his junk. Time is a testicle, after all.

Get the “old” guys in your fantasy draft and ignore anyone and everyone who has been paid by the time lobby to spread falsehoods about the whole made-up conspiracy. If time were real, Unitas would be dead. And he’s not. He’s not.