But aside from that, I don’t know much. In fact, gun to my head, I’d have to say when I think of Belgium I picture the Keebler elves. Yes, I picture a group of cheerful, half-magical elvish folk devoted to producing divine comestibles. And they live in a tree.

But I don’t really have to know about the country, do I? I’m not writing articles for snotty college kids to read in Let’s Go. I’m writing a beer column, about beer, for beer drinkers who like beer and beer-related topics. Which is just how I like it. And luckily, I know a helluva lot about Belgian beer.

You have to, if you wanna play this game. A beer blogger who can’t speak knowledgeably about Belgian beer should probably just hang up his taste buds and start studying for his real estate license.

In fact, all I know and all I want to say will never fit in one article, especially on the internet where I have to compete for attention with naked boobs. Nobody ever wins that battle for long. So there will be several articles, in this order:

Part I. Introduction: You’re reading it.

Part II. Basic Nomenclature: Honestly, kind of like a Wikipedia page. But mine will be funny.

Part III. The Dark Side: How beer snobs took something wonderful and made it a sniveling fad.

That being said, it’s high time I exacted some price for all the brilliance I’ve cast wide across the web, so I’m assigning homework. Here is a short list of Belgian beers you must not allow yourself or anyone you love to go another second without tasting.

BELGIAN BEERS YOU MUST NOT DIE WITHOUT TASTING:

Delerium Tremens

Piraat

Duvel

And my personal favorite: Roquefort #6, 8, 10.

But please remember what we’ve learned: all it takes to be a beer expert is that you take the time to taste your beer, and then decide what you like. Wine is where snobs belong. I’ll give you the ammunition to shoot down a beer snob, but keeping you from turning into one? That’s up to direct sunlight.

NEXT TIME ON BEER SCHOOL: DEEPER INTO THE BELGIANS

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Hell, it’s a great time to be a veteran. Military benefits have skyrocketed: more money for college, higher cap on V.A. home loans: there’s not a bill for the troops Congress will dare vote down. Sure, all that money’s gotta come from somewhere, but hey- it’s for the troops!

Manufacturers are pledging a percentage of every purchase go to veteran’s charities. Have you seen the commercials? They’re gonna send us to ball games or something. Plus every damn advertisement starts with a soldier coming home. Limited edition Budweiser cans! Can you believe it? Well, actually that’s pretty cool. You can keep that up, Budweiser.

Oh, and the news media! They freaking love us. Don’t get me wrong, the Military- that big amorphous blob bristling with tank turrets and general’s stars- is still as vilified as ever, but the common soldier? Forget about it. Nothing bad can be said about us. We are inviolate. So what’s the problem there, pal? There’s a distinct thread of sarcasm detectable here, and the title is kind of a giveaway.

The problem is that these are the unmistakable symptoms of an emerging underclass. It’s what the good people of America have always done with groups they feel they have exploited (Native Americans, migrant workers, descendents of slaves). Look at the signs: Nothing bad can be said of them. They are noble innocents. Money is being thrown at them. Their suffering is bemoaned.

Let’s get this straight once and for all: The troops are not victims. The troops are not simpletons you slick modern smarties rolled over. The troops are not disenfranchised teenagers that traded their one asset- life- for a shot at college money. Now here’s where it gets complicated, so open your little mind: the troops are a cross-section of America, and as such there are victims, there are simpletons, and there are disenfranchised teenagers; but there are also achievers, geniuses, patriots and several helpings of sheer unmitigated awesomeness- and these categories are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

That and we can see your thanks for what it really is: a selfish attempt to assuage your guilt over the fact that your nation was legitimately attacked and you did jack diddly shit about it. Join up, you pansy.

Okay, that got bitter. Maybe went a bit too far. But seriously…

How about this, as a sort of olive branch: We realize your intentions are good. The thanks are coming from a noble place. How about I tell you how to actually thank the troops?

For one thing, know that it’s okay to criticize. Putting people in a category where they cannot be criticized (and this goes for all the previous classes mentioned as well) is extremely disrespectful. It infantilizes them. The troops are adult enough to defend their actions, and take responsibility for mistakes.

For another thing, listen. It might surprise you to know that the high-school dropout who has spent two years on the front lines has a better conceptualization of the situation than the Ivy League graduate who has skimmed the AP. It shouldn’t surprise you, but it might.

And lastly, if you’re proud of the troops, act proud. Stow your liberal shame and brag a little. We’ve given you plenty to brag about: free elections in Iraq and Afghanistan, an extension of human rights, and zero, ZERO, successful terrorist attacks on our soil since the opening salvos. Also keep in mind that the ground we’ve taken and pacified at so much cost and blood we’re in the process of giving back. How many countries do that? What are we, nuts? Think how low gas prices would be if we kept all that oil!

Okay. My axe is ground. Have a happy Fourth of July, you jerks.

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Thoughts like that and “I can’t believe that I’m paying for this,” went through my head yesterday and so I decided to look into what tooth related gadgets and doodads might be out there to keep you, the average so and so, in perfect oral harmony… that phrase would probably be a lot cooler if I wasn’t talking about dentistry. Anyways, without further ado, we at New Gold Tooth bring you:

Five Useful, Tooth Related Products

Mouth Guards

A mouth guard can help to delay or prevent further dental work

The reason that this list starts with something as unexpected as a mouth guard is that most dental work has to do with replacing old fillings and crowns. To put it simply, I have not had any new decay in my teeth since 2003, yet I have been drilled into several times since then. Strange as it may seem, the ham sandwich I ate three weeks ago was not the thing that cracked my filling, it was the midnight grinding, that weakened the spot, that bit the sandwich, that cracked the filling… but I don’t know why I swallowed the fly (bad joke?). The point being, I now have a mouth guard to protect my teeth from myself and to save me thousands in dental work.

Cotton Mouth Mints

Ever struggle with dry mouth? Do you ever wish that your mouth could just be a little bit more wet? Do you smoke too much pot? (Too obvious?) But seriously, if you have issues with dry mouth for any reason these mints are amazing.

Xylitol Gum

Chewing gum is a funny thing. It can be helpful for oral hygiene because it can bond to, loosen and remove bits of food from your teeth, which helps greatly in the fight against tooth decay, but most gum is loaded with sweeteners that can cause tooth decay. The popular answer to this riddle is Xylitol Gum. The idea being that you get all of the benefits of gum without the negative effects of most sweeteners or sugars.

Oral Irrigation Kit

An oral irrigator can help to flush out what you've been flossing

When I was a kid, my favorite thing about oral irrigation was the little different colored end bits on the water tubes. Of course, that probably isn’t important or even that interesting, but it’s my blog so I’ll share that piece of unnecessary information. Also, as it turns out, these things can be quite orally satisfying. These systems work really well with floss because the loose food particles that floss can pull out often need to be brushed away. With an oral irrigation kit, you can loosen and flush out the particles and bacteria that cause cavities, gum disease and general oral sadness.

Teeth Whiteners

Anyone who has a female over 25 living in their home knows that there are possibly hundreds of different ways to whiten your teeth, from trays filled with whitening gel to custom made tooth tray setups, to crest white strips, to toothpaste made of CoQ10 and even laser whitening,  the possibilities may be endless. Thanks to my lovely wife, who wanted someone to try these things with her, I have whitened my teeth with just about everything in existence. In my experience, most of the systems worked well, but some hurt and others were just annoying. In my experience, the best option is to go to your dentist and get laser whitening, then follow that up by brushing with a mild and less chemically enhanced toothpaste. But if lasers are not for you and you really want to go with a tray system than I’d recommend the custom trays, they fit better than standard trays and so they’re less annoying and they don’t slide around like the Crest white strips do.

I sincerely hope that this blog was at least partially helpful in your quest for tooth happiness. If it was not, then I am truly impressed that you read all the way to this line despite that.

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I wonder if these people have a desk on their treadmills

Sadly, if you are like me, then about a week after starting the treadmill workout program you got busy, or secretly found that running in one place was just a notch less boring than a weekend drive across west Texas; and the treadmill workout went the way of Fred Flintstone and his rock moving dinosaur. If this is the case for you, then an investment in a desk for your treadmill might be a great idea. Not only does it make a past (wasted) purchase relevant again, it provides the two things that made the treadmill unusable before, time and entertainment.

Which brings me to the part where I bullet point this bad boy with:

TrekDesk Treadmill Desk

Two whole reasons to actually consider an idea as ridiculous a desk for your treadmill

It’s the Perfect Excuse to Play World of Warcraft

The thing that I like most about the TreadDesk is that it offers a way to make me feel less guilty about playing video games while my wife does something cooler or more important. With one of these, my wife can look at me sideways for playing Civilization V or WOW, and I can just say, “What? I’m working out! Can’t a man look sexy for his wife anymore?”

For the women out there, you can say the same thing, just replace video games with gossip blogs and online shopping.

Any Time Can Be Workout Time!

Pardon the exclamation point, but sometimes I like to imagine that these articles are being read out loud by infomercial salesman. Back to the point, the TrekDesk gives you time because you can multi-task; check emails, surf the net, catch up on some work or maybe even buy some sensible jogging pants online to replace the pair pattering along below you.

TrekDesk Out of the Box

If this invention isn’t a sign of the times, I don’t know what is. Apparently Americans (like me) have become so stuck to their computers that the only way we can get any exercise is to strap a desk to a treadmill. At first glance, this product looked a joke on a conveyor belt, but as I noticed what I was doing at that moment; sitting down, working in front of a computer, I got the point. The days where the average job gives you enough exercise to keep your body looking more like a classic coke bottle and less like a marshmallow are gone. So a desk strapped to a treadmill (comical as it appears) might actually be a pretty good idea.

If this is of any interest to you, you can get one at TrekDesk.com. They cost about $400.00 ($475.00 with shipping).

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boundless opportunity

However, deep within the fertile soil of the new renaissance there writhes already a turning worm…

Picture this:

In lieu of the idyllic, stable upbringing I’m sure you all enjoyed, you pampered lapdogs, pretend that you were raised instead by a stern, joyless great aunt, who ascribed to the John Harvey Kellogg school of childhood nutrition. For every meal she would prepare, and insist you eat, a homogeneous vegetarian mash that she called ‘rootmarm’.

Now, there was nothing wrong with rootmarm. It contained all the whole grains, vitamins, oat proteins, fiber and carbohydrates a growing what-have-you needs, and indeed you grew strong and sturdy. But every day, at every meal, there was the same steaming trough of mottled rootmarm. Gradually, within you The Madness grew.

Then one day she accidentally spilled a thimbleful of salt into the mix. Your head swam, your taste buds sang, and angels formed from mist about the room. Life, redolent with fertility and beckoning experience, unfurled before your dilated eyes and you escaped into the great unknown, kicking your great aunt deep between the buttocks on your way out.

When they finally found you, mere weeks later, you were squatting in a dilapidated flophouse surrounded by your own filth, chewing a massive chaw of pickled ginger and you had sold your kidneys for a sack of tarragon.

That, my friends, is the worm that turns. That is the fly in the ointment. For too long we were starved of flavor, starved of passion in our beer, and already, so quickly now that the spirit is back, we have begun to lose control.

It is a disturbing yet undeniable fact that a great many of the new brewers are out to be nothing but different, nothing but iconoclastic. They hop their beers and hop their beers until it burns through bulkheads like when you bag one of Ripley’s badguys, and they mistreat ale conditioning until the flavors push you around like the Hell’s Angels doing concert security.

For anyone who didn’t get that first reference, James Cameron has made much better movies about Marines than ‘Avatar’. Look into it.

We must not forget, here in the midst of an American beer revolution, that most revolutions fail after they succeed because they merely go against something, and have little better to replace it with.

NEXT TIME ON BEER SCHOOL: I’m not sure yet. Probably something about beer, but you never know. Life can be weird that way.

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This column is also about shitty movies.

Now I really love that. Come children, down the gully hatch of the “shitty good time” we go!

Just a stone’s throw away from Terrible is a movie. Past the avenue of the mediocre B-picture, through the Day-Glo pastiched swampland that I call the “Nineteen Hundred and Eighties”, and hiding underneath that crumbling highway overpass tagged with the enthusiastic graffiti “Good Idea!”, there’s a puddle. Look closely.

It is a puddle formed from the dripping backsweat of a mentally challenged Anime fan. He stands by himself in the vast desert of his own imagination. Watch this ogre’s meaty thighs as they slosh apace against one another, dribbling creative, life giving juice into the Oasis… the Oasis is called Robot Jox.

What can I say about this movie? Well, it’s from 1990. It’s low budget. It took years to be released because it buried the basement-budget studio financing it. And it’s directed by Stuart Gordon, the quiet lunatic that made Re-Animator, the film I’ve seen more than any other.

Sure, but what about the movie? IT IS EVERYTHING YOU WANTED WHEN YOU WERE NINE YEARS OLD AND STUPID. Ok so like there’s no war anymore so everybody fights by piloting these giant claymation mech warriors and they’re huge and they go all like GOOOSH and KRAKAKAK and WHAAAOOOMMM! The main character is Achilles (played by Gary Graham who isn’t Glenn Scott who isn’t one of the Carradines) and he fights some Russian dude who is soooo mean. Oh and his dad (Achilles’s dad, I know I’m getting ahead of myself!) is like this awesome fat cowboy who is like actually a bad guy who kills the super smart Asian doctor. Every American state is like its own country now and stuff so like there’s politics and Soviets (I don’t like them) and there’s like a secret weapon that Achilles has. Oh and if the soviets know about it they can beat him and take a bunch of land. Oh and Achilles’ dad is the spy. KRBOOOOOM!!!!

Oh and it also stars another character played by Kid who is way better when ‘n Play isn’t around. I don’t know why all the guy characters kept hitting on him.

Honestly, there is an alternate universe where Robot Jox was produced properly as a high-budget, high-concept science fiction allegory with equal parts intrigue, thematic interest, and special effects driven action. The universe we’re in is the one where a director I love tried to make a kid’s movie out of a script written by a guy who respected his own adult-oriented short story. The result is what my grandmother referred to as a “clusterfuck abortion”. Thanks Grandma.

Having said that, there is something so goddamn charming about this shitty little movie. It’s ambitious WAY beyond it’s ken. Stuart Gordon has always had that characteristic; he simply doesn’t understand that it’s not enough money for how ambitious his story is. The fantastical (and childishly dumb in design) Robots themselves are actually a total blast to watch. It is really surprisingly good claymation that is honestly more engaging than Transformers 2.

Actually, that’s my recommendation. I couldn’t sit through Transformers. I watched Robot Jox twice.

The childish joy you will experience watching this comes, I suspect, less from the appeal to the child in you than the child in the film. Sure, there is the joy of sheer camp value, and sure, I get my rocks off going through the movies I kept seeing the covers for in the video store as a little boy. But honestly, the movie’s naivete and ambition, its mix of bright colors, miscalculated regurgitations of concepts you’ve seen done better elsewhere, some good acting, some BAD acting, the fun of the actual fights themselves, and a political subtext which surpasses Rocky IV in subtlety all serve to make Robot Jox an honest way to kill 83 minutes.

Robot Jox … it Robot Rox.

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So, with the last article having given you all the tools necessary to appreciate beer (surprisingly easy, wasn’t it?), it’s time to take a bald eagle’s eye view of the state of beer in America, a vibrant portrait redolent with flavorful goodness. With that lofty intention in mind and my determined, handsome expression conveying a sense of gravity and purpose, I mount the dais and take to the podium to deliver… the Beer State of the Union. The assembled notables fall respectfully silent…

My fellow Americans… ericans… ericans… (dramatic reverb)

Beer was alive and thriving in early America. Beer was the only vice the Pilgrims allowed themselves without having to sew letters on their bodices. Large German enclaves retained their rich brewing traditions. Hordes of thirsty Irish needed it to fight off the shakes.

It was then that new American beer styles began to appear. There was steam beer, maize and barley beer, Dr. Vanderhoven’s revitalizing Opiate Arsenic Beer Tonic, and everyone’s favorite, the most popular and lasting contribution, the American lager; a blond, light lager with a clean finish. It was an exciting time.

Then it all went to hell. Why? Because of the Jews. It’s always the Jews. The Jews killed the dinosaurs.

But not really. Really it was those meddlesome do-gooders of the religious revival and their damn Prohibition. Once Prohibition was done salting the fields, pretty much the only thing that took root again was the American lager, typified today by brands like Coors and Budweiser.

So what happened? With Prohibition repealed, why didn’t beer culture start anew, why was the market dominated for so long by the same style, the same brands?

Perhaps it was because the American lager was so tasty, and so well suited to American prosperity. I mean, let’s be honest, nobody but nobody spending a day out in the glorious American summer sunshine wants to reach into the ice chest and pull out a pint of tepid ale spiced with coriander. If they do they should be watched closely because they’re obviously prone to inappropriate behavior and will likely pull their wiener out on the jumbotron.

But still, for years and years beer in America stagnated. Boring stuff. People started hating American beer. The taste hadn’t changed, but the brands collected negative connotations. First off there was the advertising schema: a dead-eyed bottle-blond tit parade interspersed with talking horses, talking frogs, and talking chameleons. Scintillating. Then there were more personal associations: What did you see scattered all over the trailer court? Sun-bleached Coors cans. What did that high school bully set down on the hood of his blue Charger before he beat you senseless in front of everybody? A Budweiser tallboy. The time had come for a change.

And then there was the advertising

And change it did! Funky free-thinking innovators, probably sporting long hair and goatees, took to their garages and started producing interesting, challenging beers; beers that tasted like something long-forgotten, something half-remembered, like a wonderful dream that you can’t recall but haunts you long into the afternoon. Beers that tasted like choice and freedom.

America! Fuck yeah!

So as a long chapter in American beer comes to an end… end… end…

Another is already being written… en… en…

In the bars and liquor stores, and on the palates of our great people.

Good night, America, and God bless. (prolonged standing ovation, grown men weeping openly)

NEXT TIME ON ‘BEER SCHOOL’: The fly in the ointment…

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The problem often falls into one of two categories: a lack of focus on your subject (see Mel Brook’s Young Frankenstein versus Dracula: Dead and Loving It), or a lack of respect for it (see the complete works of Friedberg and Seltzer… and by “see” I mean “for instance,” no one should actually see them).

The greatest parody comes from a certain appreciation and understanding for what you’re making fun of. That’s why Roasts are so damn funny, and “spoof” should be considered a dirty word.

Trey Parker and Matt Stone like to walk that line. In films like Team America and South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut, they make it work by wrapping the things they love around the stuff they’re making fun of. Hence puppets spouting right-wing rhetoric and children singing Broadway songs about Canada. There’s a certain genius to it, and it’s made them both a lot of money.

So, I was curious to see Trey Parker’s first film, Cannibal: The Musical, from 1996 (shot in 1993 when he was still a student at University of Colorado at Boulder), available for free on Hulu.com. Would it be a freshman misfire, or the first step on a path that brought us marionettes shitting on each other?

And, honestly, I was pleasantly surprised.

The film is based on the true story of Alferd Packer, a prospector in the late 18th-century and the only man ever convicted of cannibalism in Colorado. Packer tells the story of leading a group of men from Utah to find gold in Colorado. Along the way his beloved horse disappears and he takes the expedition off course to find her, eventually getting snowbound in the Rocky Mountains, the end result being Packer gets arrested for eating his companions and sentenced to death by hanging.

It’s all told in a mixture of comedy, ranging from wordplay to slapstick, and song and dance that feels like an uber low-budget “Oklahoma!”, which the film cites as a template in its opening (and fanciful) scroll.

The whole effect is fun and cheesy and, while some of the jokes fall flat, it garnered several genuine laughs from me. And, between the “period” costumes that make everyone look like Al Borland, Japanese Native Americans and sprinklings of extreme gore, the film’s so earnest and fun you can’t help but get swept up in it.

And, most of all, the songs don’t suck! A couple are actually kind of awesome, with titles like “Shpadoinkle,” “Hang the Bastard,” and “When I Was On Top Of You” (a love song to a horse).

But, what makes it all work is that Trey Parker and his cohorts really love the classic American Musical. And, they’ve made one complete with overture, reprise and ballet! This is truer in style than Chicago, and it’s funnier, too.

Everyone knows the difference between good and bad parody. You can feel it after the credits roll, when you’re driving home or, in this case, closing the browser window. It’s that moment of debate when you ask yourself “Was that a real movie, or was it just jokes?” Did it tell a story, did it make me care, or did I take a bathroom break without hitting pause and still not miss anything? It’s the difference between Airplane! and Airplane II.

Cannibal: The Musical is good parody. It’s truly shpadoinkle.

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However, once in a while, a film comes along that makes me happy and yet is so bad, so misguided, so entirely beyond defense, that even I’m forced to squirrel it away at the bottom of my DVD shelf and hope nobody notices.

Thus is the case with the abysmal, 1996 production of Tromeo and Juliet. Yes, it’s a film based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, and yes, it’s made by legendarily bad film company Troma Entertainment. And, yes, that’s why the main character is named Tromeo.

Troma Entertainment is famous for its horrible films. Their priority is not quality or fun or exploitation. Their priority is completion. And then, profit. And, boy, do these guys profit. They’ve distributed movies like Blood Sucking Freaks, Cannibal: The Musical (the first feature by Matt Stone and Trey Parker) and Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator, and produced such video “classics” as The Toxic Avenger, Class of Nuke ‘Em High and Sgt. Kabukiman NYPD. They re-use footage from other movies, hire the worst actors in New York and live and die by the belief that you can overcome any script problems with bad puns, cheesy gore and fake boobs.

There’s a huge audience for these films, but honestly, I’ve never liked them. They were just too much cheese and not enough give-a-crap for my tastes. But, Tromeo and Juliet, man, that one gets me every time.

It loosely follows the story you were forced to read in high school: Tromeo Que (son of Monty Que – hear the rimshot) courts a whore named Rosy, until he meets Juliet Capulet at a party. Of course, their families hate each other. Juliet’s engaged to marry a suitor chosen by her parents, inexplicably named London, but still, Tromeo and Juliet fall in love, get married, Juliet’s cousin kills Tromeo’s friend, Tromeo kills Juliet’s cousin and he gets banished.

And, it’s smart enough to leave out the lame parts of the play, namely the last 30 pages. Juliet takes a potion to, rather than fake death, turn into a monster, and scares London off. Tromeo returns, kisses her and makes her pretty again, enraging her father who is a psychotic child molester. A bloody battle ensues.

And, let’s be honest, that sounds awesome.

And, on the surface, it is. The story is so egregious, you giggle when you should be horrified. The music kicks ass, with many songs written specifically for the film, and others by Sublime, Superchunk and The Wesley Willis Fiasco. And, there are inspired moments where Lemmy, from Motorhead, recites a doctored version of the play’s opening monologue, or Tromeo and Juliet goof around in Central Park and screw beneath the stone lions in front of the New York Public Library.

The onscreen high-point are the leads, Jane Jensen and Will Keenan. As Juliet, Jensen manages to remain precious while fondling a giant goo-covered penis monster, and Keenan, as Tromeo, smiles through the madness so genuinely that he manages to keep you from writing it all off as frivolous. They make a believable, charming couple. (Incidentally, Jensen also created an alt-pop album in the late 90’s called Comic Book Whore that I listened to constantly; and Will Keenan insulted my girlfriend on his website.)

The script, too, has a lot of potential, written by James Gunn, who later created Slither and PG Porn. It actually includes text from the original play and much of it is written in iambic pentameter.

And, on a totally random note, this is the only movie I’ve ever heard of where the R-rated version is 6 minutes longer than its Unrated version!

But, after a while, it’s all cheap and soulless.

Most of it is exploitation masquerading as satire. The jokes are offensive without the benefit of being funny and the visual style is flat to the point of cardboard. Lloyd Kaufman, the director and producer, just wants to get his characters in the frame, paying little attention to whether or not they’re well-lit, well-dressed, or even in focus. And, while he would claim that his film “takes no prisoners,” its comedy is too cheap and jabs too random to be enjoyed.

The cast is a hodgepodge of hipsters and Troma regulars, and most of them aren’t able to rise above the ugliness of the film’s spirit. They read the lines with earnestness and enthusiasm, but the script does them no favors and their best deliveries fall flat.
But, in the end, the real problem with Tromeo and Juliet is one of respect. The movie doesn’t have any. Not for its cast or crew or script or audience. It’s a random, mean little film that wants to have class and style while still being trashy and fun, but it gets lost somewhere between Juliet’s lesbian nurse and the over-acting priest telling two-cent molestation jokes.

Still, I’ve probably watched this movie more than any other DVD on my shelf. I know some scenes word for word, and have my bathroom breaks timed down to the second. I’ve followed the careers of the movie’s cast, purchased the soundtrack… I even pre-ordered the Blu-Ray!

And why do I keep coming back? I really have no idea. While that goes against all my rules of liking something inexplicably, I still do.

The only way I could get my wife to watch this movie was to win a bet. When I finally got her to sit down long enough for me to push play, she fell asleep twenty minutes in. And, you know what, I was so embarrassed by what was happening onscreen, I didn’t bother to wake her up.

I just smiled and giggled and shook my head all by myself.

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The time arrives and there is a buzz in the air, it’s (Prom/March Madness)! Boys look dreamily at (girls/college basketball analysis) while girls hope against hope that this will finally be the year that (the perfect guy asks them to Prom/March Madness is canceled). My best friends pressure me into spending money I don’t have on (a tuxedo and limo/an online bracket pool) and I agree, despite the fact that I have no (female prospects/clue about college basketball) and because apparently this only happens (once/once a year/). Eventually all of the hullabaloo engages me, my excitement mounts and even my (mother/wife) is begging me to (temper my enthusiasm/shut the hell up) about (the prom/my bracket).

It's that time of year again

Getting the Girl/Filling Out My Bracket

Time passes swiftly and I realize that I am running out of time, if I don’t (ask a girl to the prom/fill out my bracket) soon, I’ll be the only guy (at the prom/in my pool) who spent a mountain of money to do nothing but hold his junk. So I start by picking the best looking, most popular (girls/teams). Then after (realizing that I just started puberty/looking at a way too predictable bracket) I change my mind and start looking at some of the less highly regarded talent. Then I see the perfect (girl/team)! The kind of Cinderella that might just actually (say yes/win a couple of rounds), the kind of choice selection who has been overlooked, but who in my opinion is just as good as the (cheerleaders/#1 Seeds). So I (ask her/change my bracket) and to my surprise (she actually says yes/none of my friends laugh at my picks).

Looking for the Cinderella, courtesy of fashions.org

The Games Begin/The Limo Ride

The big day arrives and my (mom takes a bunch of pictures/ friends call in sick to work) while Brian hides a flask of my father’s single malt scotch in his jacket. We make our way into the (limo/sports bar) and I get way too drunk, way too fast. The games begin and I appear to be doing quite well because (my date is still laughing at my playful innuendo/my morning teams have done pretty well) .  Then, just as I think that everything’s coming up Milhouse, my (date tells me what a great friend I am/first round teams start dropping like pigeon crap on a convertible). We exit the (limo/sports bar) and I start worrying that I’ll never (get laid/win my bracket).

The official birdshit of America's Brackets

Things Go Poorly, But is There Still Hope?

So we’ve finally reached (the inside of the fancy hotel/the sweet sixteen) and things are looking pretty bleak. Most of my buddies are grinding on (the dance floor/printed copies of their brackets) while I am engaged in funny but ultimately damning (conversation/justification) with my (date/other buddy with a failed bracket) about the value of a clean colon (lifelong obsession) and my general failures in regard to activities requiring more than one person. But then I see it (My dates shoulders start to bounce to the rhythm/My grinding friends don’t have that victorious 12 seed that I picked in their brackets)! So I dance! As time goes by my friend’s (dates need a rest/favorite picks lose a couple of games) and I’m the only one who is still dancing, mostly because of all of the booze, but also because (my date actually looks happy/my 12 seed selection is winning at halftime).

And now we dance by Slightlynorth (Flickr)

The King Gets Lucky While I’m Drinking Beer With a “Friend”

Then when I’m sure the time is right, I (go in for a kiss/overtly brag about my genius #12 seed pick) only to be shot down completely at the last possible moment by a dick basketball player who I hardly know that (whooped at me before the kiss, embarrassing my date/hit a 3 point bucket while time expired to beat my #12 seed). So I slowly sit down in quiet shock and embarrassment while my friends point at me in a strange combination of howling laughter and disguised pity. As I try to regroup, to pick myself up, to look for any tiny ray of hope that this disastrous event will go my way, the (prom/tournament) comes to a close. As expected the (Prom King/#1 Seed) ends up with (some bimbo using his pecker for a handrail/cut up basketball nets and a trophy) and I am on the way to an after party with my (date/bracket) in hand, trying to find some way to end the day on a positive note.

As expected the King gets lucky (by lintmachine)

It Ends

The whole group goes to (Justin’s house/the Brass Elephant Bar) and a surprisingly awesome party ensues. Dave does a (Keg stand/46 year old cougar) in the corner, Chris gets a (bottle broken/unexplainable rash) on his foot and Steve gets his ass kicked by (his date/a Samoan truck driver). The soothing cold feel of a forty ounce bottle of malt liquor numbs my pain and fogs my brain, while the stain on a model train is drained into a sink that says, “Not only are you rhyming too much, but those brownies Andy gave you were filled with all natural THC!”

The morning comes, my mind is once again my own… ish and I take my (date/bracket) home. We walk toward a door and just as I think the whole thing will end up with a polite (hug and a smile/toss of a paper bracket into an industrial dumpster) gumption strikes me and I (sweep my date around and plant a firm kiss upon her waiting lips/dip my bracket in lighter fluid, tape it to a bottle rocket, send it skyward to the tune of Waltzing Matilda!). Satisfaction fills me, my (Prom/March Madness) experience suddenly feels pretty great and I can tell by the (look in her eyes/unexpected saudade) that I will be (seeing more of this girl/doing this all over again next year.)

Holding hands by mikebaird

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