March Madness Special Entry Edition

Question: What is the single greatest three weeks every year, a stretch of 21 days that not even Jesus, Allah, Buddah, or David Hasselhoff, in their infinite, Godly wisdom, could create more perfectly? Take your time.

Waiting...

Still waiting...

Give up? Well, unless Halloween is running together with Thanksgiving, and I can wear my two-sizes too small Spiderman costume while I gorge myself on ham and stuffing, the answer would be March Madness. When you see lists of the greatest inventions ever, you see such modern marvels as the aeroplane, computers/the Internet (God Bless you Al Gore), cellular phones, vehicular travel, and even the toothbrush. But, never have I viewed a list that included the NCAA Men's Basketball Championship. And that's alright. You know why? BECAUSE IT'S THE REASON ALL THE OTHER INVENTIONS MATTER! Don't believe me? Alright, Mr. I'm-Too-Cool-For-Your-Unsound-But-Somewhat-Plausible-Explanations. Squirt a little of this on your hot dog...

Why do we need airplanes or cars? Oh, that's right, to fly to the tournament games. Or to drive to a local bar and get hammered and root for teams from places you have to Wikipedia to find out where they're from (Oakland is from Michigan? What?!) Easy.

Why do we need the Internet? Duh! So I can watch every game, as it's happening, inhale box scores like Lindsay Lohan doing a ten foot line of coke, and read enough post-game opinion pieces that my total for each day makes Ulysses look like The Little Engine That Could (great, great book by the way. Vastly underrated.)

Why cell phones? To call my friends who root for schools like Purdue and Kentucky and make fun of them when their teams lose like big floppy losers. Also, to call my mommy and cry when my team loses.

Toothbrushes? Come on. Not related at all. Oh yeah? Let's say you win the championship, or at least score a huge upset, you know, win a game you weren't supposed to win. Suddenly, everyone loves you and wants to be your friend. Now, being as you are on a college campus, that means co-eds. Now, despite the fact that you are suddenly a hero, your deeds plastered all over the place so saps like me with no natural talent besides nasty free-throw abilities can gawk and drool over you, the ladies will not want to be near your suddenly God/John Holmes-like status if your breath smells like a dirty jock strap. Clean mouth? Fuck Orbitz. Toothbrush. Toothbrush.

As great as all of this is, there is one glaring problem that no one seems to be addressing, and that's the announcers. Now, ignore the fact that half the games are being called by what have to be shaven hobos picked up off the street (Spero Dedes? Who is Spero Dedes? Is that the scientific name for an extinct bird?) I think that if one is announcing a nationally televised sporting event, they should be required to do the following: Record yourself calling a game at home. Just, announce some random TiVo'd game, doesn't have to be anything important. Now, have your wife or kid or one of Tiger Woods' mistresses transcribe that for you into a Word Document. Now - stay with me - enter that text into the search box for a little website I like to call www.urbandictionary.com. Go ahead. Have a peek. And if any phrase you have announced appears in said website, maybe you should not say it anymore.

I mean, fucking seriously! I have scoured Google for thirty two minutes and sixteen seconds trying to find any mention of this, and N-A-D-A. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Am I the only one bothered by this trend?

Look, when a player is coming out of the game, he is doing so to rest. Please stop saying he is "getting a blow." Getting a blow? What, are the school's cheerleaders now doubling as part-time porn stars? Is John Wall going to the bench to relieve some pent up tension courtesy of a little cheek tickling from Susie cheerleader? Or are there special team managers for that? Does Purdue employ cattle to sit behind the bench? Was that a joke about Gene Keady and ugly Purdue girls? Yes. I know, this sounds ridiculous, but that's because it is. He has been selected by his coach to come out of the game to rest, not to be fellated in front of 20,000 screaming fans. If I start hearing this during the women's tournament, I'm going to be very concerned.

The same goes for "stroking it". No, he's not stroking it. I'm pretty sure that's illegal in every state but Kentucky, Texas, and West Virginia. This isn't an arena sized meat show. He's SHOOTING the ball. Trying to make a basket. Please don't be fancy and compare the simple act of trying to shoot a basketball to Paul Reuben and George Michael's personal lives. Same goes for "kissing it". Even something as simple as putting the "ball in the hole" sounds...well, painful to be honest with you.

Despite those shortcomings, I love everything else about the tournament. The upsets. The little schools making deep runs. The nail-biters. The inexplicable white kid who plays lights out, gets drafted way too early based on two or three lucky games, and ends up riding the bench in some obscure league in some European country. It is quite simply the greatest three weeks of television every year and the one thing that makes me not go postal in mid-February when I'm freezing and unemployed.

Speaking of unemployment, two recent upstarts in my life have come to an end. First, I am no longer an auction house very-limited-part-time-employee. My choice. Twelve hours a week of hauling dead people's furniture out of their newly emptied homes isn't as glorious as I make it sound. And secondly, the beard is no more. I have reverted back to looking like I'm sixteen years old again. To a point, the beard was wonderful. But, past that point, I started to look like Joaquin Phoenix's long lost brother not named River. It couldn't be contained any longer. I had to put it down. RIP beardy...

And so, I am back, rank and file into the Army of the unemployed. If you have ideas, please let me know. I'm running out of them.