Who hasn’t got kicked in the balls by a Stephen F. Austin every year? In a way I think you could say laying an ice bag in your crotch for 24 hours is just an effective way to to demonstrate the psychological pain you are going through. If nothing else being able to numb the region of the body that represents virile manhood might provide some emotional solace. Personally I had to reposition my imaginary ice bag across the bridge of my nose after Middle Tennessee thumb-gouged both my eyeballs as i watched them dismantle Michigan State.
Where I should really apply my psychological ice bag is on my ass. That’s where I kicked myself for listening to all of ESPN hot shot bracket predictors for three solid evenings on my 50 inch television set. These guys are supposed to know what in the fuck they are doing, right? I mean they watch basketball games 24/7. I just tune in when the tournaments start. My bracket is sitting solidly in 17th place, only two rungs away from the bottom of the standings ladder. The only reason I am not at the very bottom is because the two people below me didn’t enter our pool this year and remain on the list as a reminder that I would have been better off doing as they did and ignored the whole mind-dicking experience. Jesus Christ my wife, daughter, daughter-in-law and two nieces are stomping the shit out of me. I couldn’t be more emasculated. The bracket nightmare resumes this week end, but I think I’ll try and watch some pre-season baseball games. They can be agonizingly boring, but a nap is always nice, and at least I know there isn’t a baseball bracket looming on the horizon to slam me in the nuts.
Above is a metaphorical representation of what my bracket and soul look like after week one.