shankin like al franken

So I am halfway through my 6-day Shawshank Tour at my old job. It hasn't been easy. Not one thing in particular has ruined it, just a series of small bad things that at the end of the day make my brainial ulcer bleed. In short, there's some fucked up bullshit going on. But what can you do? The Man lays down the rules, the rest of us just try to get ours and get out before we get squashed. Only three days left. Only three days left.

Too bad Wisconsin lost their lanky honky. They might have done some damage in this year's tournament. Oh well, I'm still picking 'em to go to the Final Four, because that's what you do when your school is a 1 or a 2 seed. Otherwise the possibility of acute roundball regret is too scary. Usually you insulate yourself by turning in a second, less emotion-based bracket, but not this year for me. Too busy. Go Badgers! Do it for Rashard Griffith! Do it for Steve Yoder!

Get even more caught up in the hoophype with Dan K.'s Slate piece about the death of the bracketmaster. I was the bracketmaster at one time. I loved it and hated it and finally gave it up. And I don't miss it even one little bit. My wife will never let me forget our vacation in South Florida in 2003 (starting on 3/16 -- also note that that was verbungle.com's frist month of existence and that I was already longing for a moustache), when I wasted a significant portion of the trip holed up in the hotel room fixing glitches in my first-ever internet-based pool. Sorry baby.

Oh and nobody got MDillyhairmetalballaddat: the answer was Warrant's "I Saw Red." What was MDilly thinking? What was America thinking?