Madness and the Modern Man
My brackets are in about six pieces. I can't see straight. What's worse, my town has the madness and it's turning into malevolence.
The NCAA Tourament invaded Greenville this week. Our local arena outfitted itself with NCAA logos. Parking Nazis started patrolling the town borders looking for drivers who have brown eyes and brown hair. The Nazis herded these people into a parking garage and charged them their tonsils to park for a couple of hours.
Bomb dogs are roaming through the arena hallways. Ticket scalpers are sharpening their daggers. Police are installing bomb-proof barricades along the sidewalks.
Teams confused by a new pod system are wandering through the streets, drunk on basketball and hopped up on main-line adrenaline. Shop owners have torn down their doors and invited the masses in to sample eighteen different kinds of cheese. They are especially looking for the people who don't care how fucking runny it is.
Excitement is tempered by anxiety, though. Something just doesn't feel quite right.
It may be that Greenville drew some unexciting matchups. Sure, the Blue Devils are here and they brought the Cameron Crazies with them. And yes, we have a Big XII team in town as well. But that's about it, as far as I am concerned.
Less than 24 hours from now, basketball bedlam will eat Greenville, SC. It will have less to do with the excitement of the games, and more to do with the circus that surrounds them. Downtown street parties, alumni mixers, and counterfeit t-shirt salesmen.
As my social anxiety disorder progresses into a full-blown mental illness, I fear I will lock myself in my upstairs bathroom and weep for 48 straight hours.
I wish I had the foresight to take vacation this week. My chosen profession will thrust me into the thick of this madness, a microphone and a Glock 9mm in my hands.
Forgive me now as I climb my brackets up to insanity. Somewhere in the Sweet 16 there is a siren calling me toward the jagged rocks. She is a beauty like few others and I only meet her once a year. This year, however, she is closer to home and I fear the proxemity will age her eyes and sag her breasts.
If you don't hear from me in the next few days, you'll know the siren's call was worth the worry.
My brackets are in about six pieces. I can't see straight. What's worse, my town has the madness and it's turning into malevolence.
The NCAA Tourament invaded Greenville this week. Our local arena outfitted itself with NCAA logos. Parking Nazis started patrolling the town borders looking for drivers who have brown eyes and brown hair. The Nazis herded these people into a parking garage and charged them their tonsils to park for a couple of hours.
Bomb dogs are roaming through the arena hallways. Ticket scalpers are sharpening their daggers. Police are installing bomb-proof barricades along the sidewalks.
Teams confused by a new pod system are wandering through the streets, drunk on basketball and hopped up on main-line adrenaline. Shop owners have torn down their doors and invited the masses in to sample eighteen different kinds of cheese. They are especially looking for the people who don't care how fucking runny it is.
Excitement is tempered by anxiety, though. Something just doesn't feel quite right.
It may be that Greenville drew some unexciting matchups. Sure, the Blue Devils are here and they brought the Cameron Crazies with them. And yes, we have a Big XII team in town as well. But that's about it, as far as I am concerned.
Less than 24 hours from now, basketball bedlam will eat Greenville, SC. It will have less to do with the excitement of the games, and more to do with the circus that surrounds them. Downtown street parties, alumni mixers, and counterfeit t-shirt salesmen.
As my social anxiety disorder progresses into a full-blown mental illness, I fear I will lock myself in my upstairs bathroom and weep for 48 straight hours.
I wish I had the foresight to take vacation this week. My chosen profession will thrust me into the thick of this madness, a microphone and a Glock 9mm in my hands.
Forgive me now as I climb my brackets up to insanity. Somewhere in the Sweet 16 there is a siren calling me toward the jagged rocks. She is a beauty like few others and I only meet her once a year. This year, however, she is closer to home and I fear the proxemity will age her eyes and sag her breasts.
If you don't hear from me in the next few days, you'll know the siren's call was worth the worry.
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