March Madness, Mayhem and Milk of MagnesiaTM...
Well it is that time of year, if you are a boy, to become abso-fuckin-lutely
engulfed in big-time college basketball, the roundball, hoops,
the rock, the sport white guys aren't that good at, the Sweet
16, the Elite 8, the Final goddamned Four. NCAA Basketball!!!!!!!
To those uninitiated, this time of year allows for many things
that are socially unacceptable at any other time of the year.
I am serious, you can get away with shit right now that you just
couldn't in November...for inky-dink:
Small things like just standing around at work talking. Now usually
if you try just standing around at someone else's desk, or the
water-cooler, at the adult book store counter wherever, the boss
ain't having it. You have to be there 8 or more hours and you
are supposed to do your damn job and keep you damn mouth closed,
right? Well in March you sprinkle in crafty witicisms like "Fuck
Duke" or "I don't like Tennessee because I am a totally
fucking racist and they don't have any white dudes" or "Fuck
Duke" and the bossman grins, and you are wasting a whole
day just standing around bantering and using your expert knowledge
of basketball (because you started two guard when you were 11
in the Junior Pro league and made Allstars but it snowed so you
never got to actually play in the All Star game, cuz your Papaw
didn't have very good tires on the Ford Falcon) to weasle out
of doing anything at all at work.
The Brackets, oh man, the brackets...this is when you actually
get to gamble while at work and it is almost a job requirement.
Selection Sunday has boys hunkered next to the telebision, fat
pencils in hand writing down their seeds (as opposed to tossing
them), jumping on the internet to chit-chat about who got what,
preparing for Monday morning at work. When they get there then
the fun begins, Xeroxing on the company dime tons of copies of
the brackets to pass out to all the folks at work, this encompasses
the complete basketball freak who nevers misses a game, owns an
autograph of Dick Vitale's written on a overused Hooter's napkin
and the 350 lb. woman who think Tubby Smith is a pet name for
her ass. Filling out these brackets is obviously time consuming
(read: all fucking day) and also very nerve racking. With all
the #2 vs. #15, 22-9 vs. 20-10, Cinderella vs. Shoe-in, "goddamn
boys this is tearing the ass out of me" you are lucky you
don't have to call in sick Tuesday with the sons-a-bitchin' acid
reflux, which by the way, has been killing me of late, with the
trying to get the show up and the make the BOF site look good
and the day job and Dale Earnhardt dying. I have been trying to
battle this shit with pills that supossedly eat acid, the pink
shit, and of course MOM, Milk of MagnesiaTM, which does not taste
as good on Fruity PeeblesTM as one might think and makes you shit
literal square poops, I am not kidding you, square like little,
teeny or not cinder blocks and let me tell you square peg out
of round cylinder leaves round cylinder with an ouchy. Sorry,
what was I saying...oh yeah, filling out these brackets is tough
and there is big money on the line, think about this, 65 teams,
5 bucks a hit, well you do the math. This is more than a lot of
people make in a week so it is serious and sanctioned by your
HR department so you gotta do it. The other side of this workaday
gambling has grown men getting out their safety scissors and making
little ticker-taped, confetti pieces with words like Gonzaga and
Monmouth on them and then pulling out their ahrd-earned cash money
and reaching their nicotine stained fingers in a TupperwareTM
container and drawing one of this pieces out hoping to get a "zona"
or "carolina". This takes on the importance of life/death
as the day unravels and guys have to buy multiple "chances"
to up the possiblity of winningor just getting the 'Cats. All
this really means is that the whole fucking work day has been
shot and the boss is down with it, how in the fuck? In my hometown,
home of the greatest fucking college basketball team in the whole
world and I shit you not. Folks come and go from their offices
to talk smack for the whole 2 weeks of the "tourney".
First-borns are named after shining stars of these games, you
should see little Chocolate Thunder Treadway, but digress. Work
is only the social stomping ground where like minded BluenecksTM,
it is mine don't use it, meet to bash Saul, bitchabout Tubby,
my favorite anecdote, "it's not that Tubby is black, but
he just isn't the RIGHT coach for us," which means, "
I don't like colored folk, he isn't the WHITE coach for us."
But come March the University of Kentucky troops all rally and
we are willing to give any one a chance if we think we can carry
the strap one more time.
Drinking....well watching basketball at any Sports BarTM, means
excessive amounts of draft beer in special commemorative cups
and the possiblity of a riot, cop-car-turning-over, celebratory
clusterfuck, possibly without ever having to worry about going
to the pokie, so you have to love that. You can come to work the
next day if your team wins with a black eye or missing a tooth
and no one'll care cuz' the blankityblanksTM won the big dream
game. Isn't aht what big-time athletics is all about, beating
the shit out of each other? I mean how many screaming matches
have you been in while downing some Fried Cheese FingersTM with
RanchTM that utimately ended up with human blood being shed, and
the majority of the time this happens you are both rooting for
the same schools. Go blah, blah, blah! And women are not immune
to this fever that spreads like an epidemic through the country.
If their team wins they just might "Show Us Their Tits"
as the old saying goes. Ah, the excitement of warm beer, young
collegiate co-eds and the slight chance of the 2 things meeting
in a deadhorse opportunity for you and your pals...ah, March Madness.
So it is that time of year, it only rolls around in March, state
mandated insanity, Get Some! Go Tubby! Fuck Duke!
I 've Got Your Fantasy Basketballs