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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Delonte West by Keith Allison

Apparently Cleveland Cavalier guard, Delonte West, skipped practice recently. No one really knows why, but the popular theory is that after carrying loaded and concealed weapons in his car (including a shotgun in a guitar case, rock!) he was not in a good place mentally to join the team in preparation for the upcoming season.

Now, I could ask why he felt it was necessary to carry a bunch of loaded weapons in his car but that question has been presented ad nauseum and the answer is always the same: “because I’m a target”. So instead of ignoring this answer and trying to dig down into the deep-seated psychological issues that face West, and other notable gun toting athletes, I’m going to assume that this answer is the absolute truth.

We live in a barbaric society where average everyday Americans want nothing more than to cleave the hard grown brains of famous athletes from their carefully chiseled skulls! It’s a war zone out there, America! We mustn’t stop athletes from carrying guns, No! We need to give them more guns! In fact there should be a provision added to the Constitution that allows… nay, requires all athletes to carry rocket propelled missiles on jet packs. Without such a provision, I fear that professional athletics may cease to exist in this country.

Chidori Kaname (千鳥かなめ) by Yume Photo

Don’t believe me? Well then ask yourself this, what is the first thing you think about in the morning? What’s for breakfast? How in god’s name is it already 7:00am? No, you want people to think that you think that, but Delonte West and I know the truth. You wake up and you immediately think the same thing that everyone else does: I must viciously murder a person today who is my athletic superior! Don’t deny it.

So let’s change our tone today America, let us not punish these athletes for carrying lethal and concealed weaponry, let’s applaud them instead. For they live in a world where whizzing bullets and explosive detonations are a way of life and the only way to stop this is to let our country’s brightest athletes blast the shoulders off of ordinary citizens.

file01920 by by dklimke

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Lone Syringe by kreg.steppe

As the ever-increasing list of steroid users in Major League Baseball is leaked I, and thousands of 30-something year-old men like me, am reminded of the overweight, mustachioed, baseball card shop owner. A man who convinced us, in earnest, to invest in Mark McGwire rookie cards when we were scarcely ten years old. We flocked to the card shop and spent our hard-earned, lawn mowing and toilet cleaning money by the truck load and we were glad to do so. We had dreams you see, dreams of owning a piece of history, dreams of giving our collection of rare and valuable cards to our sons, and using that as a bonding experience. At least most of us did, David Ruiz used to bend them around the spoke of his bicycle tire and enjoy the flapping noise it made when he rode his bike.

But most of us were excited by the high powered young players of the era.

“These guys are changing the game,” we would say.
“The combination of speed and power these players hold is unheard of,” we said.
“Five tools! Five Tools!” we screamed!

From the age of 10 to the age of 24 I spent over $1000.00 collecting future “legends” like Roger Clemens, Manny Ramirez and Sammy Sosa. I had a collection that during the height of the home run era was worth well over $10,000.00. I was flying high! I had a speech prepared for my future son about the skill and patience needed to build a classic collection, I wore a monopoly man costume for Halloween, I thought I was a genius, the king of bubble gum stained cardboard. I laughed at David Ruiz, “How could you waste a $45.00 Juan Gonzales card on your bike? It’s sad how you loved that ridiculous noise!”

Barry Bonds - Giants vs A's by Steve Rhodes

If only I knew that this unheard of greatness was because those bastards were cheating. One by one, my precious cards faltered. With each new investigation came new names. The witch-hunt was on and I was losing. But still, all was not lost, sure, Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens were toast but I had Alex Rodriguez! He was pure, he was clean! He shall save baseball and my card collection in simultaneous triumph! Until we found out that he wouldn’t, because he wasn’t.

Now it’s just a matter of time before those collections are barely worth the paper on which they are printed. If Ken Griffey Jr.’s name is ever leaked then I will have more value in my sons diaper then in the baseball card collection I had planned to give him. I am disappointed, frustrated and even irate; not so much at steroids or at my government for starting this witch-hunt, but at Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Alex Rodriguez and the like. These were good ballplayers. Maybe they wouldn’t have been the best ever without steroids but they probably would have been hall of famers and legends anyway. If not them then someone else in my collection would have been. But they were larger than life, perhaps even bigger than the game and so their magnified decisions made the entire era suspect and the cards that I, and so many others, collected suffered the consequences.

Baseball Cards by by Joe Shlabotnik

So I have made a decision, I have decided that when my son is old enough I’ll give ol’ David Ruiz a call and tell him what a genius he was. Then I’ll fold my $2.00 Juan Gonzales rookie card over my son’s bicycle wheel spoke and let him listen to the beautiful rhythmic melody of its flapping noise, and then I’ll have peace.

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