By guest blogger Tim Thompson
I understand the appeal of the NCAA College Basketball Tournament. It’s a great showcase of athletic skill, and comparing brackets with friends and co-workers is a barrel of fun. But it’s not for me, a guy who just gets so peeved, I’m talking totally miffed to heck, every March. As someone who gets pissed, just 100% mad during the third month of the year, I find the term “March Madness” extremely offensive.
I’m not sure what it is about March that steams me so bad. Maybe it’s how my oldest son always lights my antique boxes on fire on St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe it’s how I’ve accidentally fallen into a manhole while carrying a huge wedding cake every March for eight years. Who can say? It’s not for us to know the will of fate. All I know is I get heated, I tell you I get downright vexed during March. It’s a bad time. I’m a grump of a fellow in all ways in March! And when I want to calm down, and I turn on the TV, what do I see? Nothing but March Madness, the very thing I wanted to escape from.
Now it’s not the basketball I mind. I usually like basketball. But when it’s March? Golly gee, chum, you better put some money–and I’m talking some cold cash here—on it that I am irate! Piqued and peeved to the maximum. The last thing I need is some college sports dummies telling me about March Madness. Buddy, I know about March Madness! I don’t need you triggering my March Madness—I was plenty mad already before you came along, bucko, and now you just went and kicked it into five-alarm territory.
My month-long fury haunts me throughout the year. My friends and family treat me with kid gloves every other month, never able to forget what a honked-off hunk I become during March. And when I see that damnable month coming, I know all I’ll be hearing about is sports fans chatting about March Madness this, March Madness that, and I tell ya it zings me! It gets me heated! Any chance of a calm March is gone, all because some b-ball suckers had to go and yammer about my ruinous annual rage and I get P.O.’d to hell that they reminded me of it.
It’s bad enough that steam shoots out of my ticked-off ears every March for thirty-one consecutive days, do I have to be reminded of my curse every time those sweaty sport boys squeak across the court? I get irascible, I get wound up. It’s March. You don’t need your nickname to rub it in my face. Ooh, the insensitivity of it all! I don’t like it! It makes me upset! You heard it from me first: I’m steamed.
Tim Thompson doesn’t know what the hell was the point of all this, either.