An Ode to March's Athletically-Induced Mental Maladies

An Ode to March's Athletically-Induced Mental Maladies:
As March comes to a close, the madness subsiding, your bracket busted and your ego bruised, we take stock of how many hours we wasted picking, where guessing at random or flipping a coin may have served you better, who can jump higher or shoot a basketball or straight up cheat their way to victory.  My guessing skills would've been better spent picking teams based on how their mascot would fare in a fight against an angry mother grizzly bear, alas, my bracket was indeed busted, but the madness continued.  Juan picked all the high seeds, Big Brown picked all the religious schools, but Natty was the smartest, he didn't pick at all.  I was fortunate enough to watch the 15-seed Mountain Hawks kicked the chair out from under Duke along side a Lehigh graduate, which was followed by shots and jump start to St. Patrick's Day weekend.  Baylor's jerseys hurt my corneas real good, Charles Barkley hurt my ears real bad (but I could watch him play golf all day...), and my debts have amounted to $5 to the office pool, 1 girly cocktail to a friend, and a balance due of a fraction of a brunch that must contain at least 2 breakfast meats to qualify.  Yet as the final weekend of the delirium of b-ball approaches, I cannot escape the madness.  Unbeknownst to me at the time of booking, my spring vacation brings us through New Orleans, the site of the culmination of my poor bracket choices, so as to wipe the misfortune of UNC's point guards broken wrist in my face one last time as a Kansas fan will undoubtedly puke all over my new shoes (their pumps, nbd, ninja turtle colors, Michelangelo duh!).  So as the hoops comes to a close this weekend, I will be on a boat ship, somewhere on the body of water that BP treats like their own toilet bowl, happily ignoring the conclusion to tournament that has taken so much attention and brainpower.  And when I awake on the Tuesday morning after the final game, I will be still stuck in my own madness, enduring a trip to Mexico and back in the burrito deficient reality I have committed myself to until Easter.

This Week's Movie Review: I asked Juan how much I would have to pay him to go see Wrath of the Titans and write a review... he was out of my price range.  Instead the most recent movie I've seen is Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris.  It was nominated for an Oscar, but didn't win, and I did my best to not get lost once Woody tried to get weird.  I choose to believe it was the sequel to Wedding Crashers, where Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdams go to Paris then shit gets awkward and weird. Its not a bad movie by any means, but if I think if you like Woody Allen then this is your wheelhouse.  All I took away was Ernest Hemingway was a man's man and French ladies like Owen Wilson's crooked nose. Rating: 3 hand claps and a sleeping beauty sticker (B slept through 80% of this one)!

This Week in Bear News:  A bear expert says that 98% of people walk away from bear encounters who use bear spray, where as only 56% walk away unharmed when they use guns.  So bear spray is like pepper spray but stronger and can be sprayed farther.  Breaking news: apparently bear's don't like cayenne pepper in their eyes.  I don't know but to me it sounds like the bears have gotten to the bear expert, he can't be trusted.... pepper spray vs. gun?  If you can't hit a bear shooting a gun, then why are you hunting bears people?  Also, the bears are obviously resolved to kill the person with the gun and take it for themselves, duh!  Do you think a bear wants your stupid pepper spray, nope.  Lets just hope the bears don't get gun licences through this corrupted bear expert or we're all screwed.

Olympic Countdown: 121 Days
Today's Pre-Olympic Betting Odds: Over/Under # of USA Gold Medals~ 34.5