March Madness. I’ve never had it. I’ve had spring fever. I’ve been cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I even had a touch of the AIDS until I beat it with Robitussin. But I’ve never gotten March Madness.
Maybe it’s because I don’t watch college sports.
College, my Grampy used to say, is a time for cheating on trigonometry exams, eating nothing but Ramen noodles, and standing in a circle with five other fraternity pledges and jacking onto a pizza. Then eating that pizza before the frat’s Grand Kleagle smashes your pimply faces with a Louisville Slugger. Then you drink like a marooned sailor until you pass out and eventually die of alcohol poisoning.
Yes, that, my friends, is what college is about.
Yet, working adults with bills, mortgages, and children of their own clamor to watch these stupid kids play a game. And it’s only football and basketball, mind you. Pussies play any other sport in college. Like lacrosse. What the hell is lacrosse? A damn French game, that’s what. Call it, Freedomcross! Lose that damn e at the end of it. Play that game, my Uncle Squiggy says, and you’re either gay or you get falsely accused of rape.
March Madness is when we gamble on these coddled drunks and universities allow them to miss as many classes as they need to so that they may get to snip at a net with little scissors and make out with a trophy. Hey, LeBron, Kobe and KG didn’t need that horse shit.
The older I get the less I care about these babies and their games. That’s why Don Imus was right to say what he said. I mean, I’d have been shocked if he said it about a men’s team. But women’s basketball? At Rutgers, where Mr. Magoo went to school? Who cares!
All the rah-rah and the stupid trumpets and the 60-year-old commentator analyzing young black men. It’s creepy.
And that Barack Obama wants to screw with the BCS. Be the BCS president then, shithead. Otherwise, save our economy before we’re all eating dirt. Stop worrying about the right way to determine the best team of delinquents. Do you know how long a football tournament takes? They’ll be playing into April. Then they’ll miss spring break and all the homoerotic lessons that come with it. Is that what you want, Barack?
So, no, I don’t watch college sports. Put cameras in a sorority house on a Friday or Saturday night. That’s the sport I want to gamble on and eat potato chips to. If I want to watch 18-year-old amatuers throw a ball around, I’ll go back to selling drugs to high school kids after school.
All these grown men in ties at the workplace. “Hey, do you think Gonzaga can beat Virginia Tech?”
“Gosh, I don’t know, Bill. We’ll have to wait and see if there’s another shooting or beheading at Tech. Then we‘ll know.”
Everyone with their brackets and their divisions of four and alliterations for each round. “Well, now we’re in the Final Four. Before that it was the Elite Eight. But that was after the Sexy Sixteen and the Thalidomide Thirty-two.”
Shut up! Most of these kids will be working in some mailroom next year with the same sheet of paper and 64 stupid schools typed on it.
Rah-rah-rah, shish-boom-bah this, you little bastards.