HOW MY ASS TASTE?
HOOOOOOOBOY. HOOOOBOY. HOW YOU LIKE IT, HOW YOU LIKE IT, HOW YOU LIKE IT?
Looks like everyone not named Zack got lined up and rolled out on a STRETCHER this year in the GRH NCAA Brackakke. I emerged victorious, vanquishing my foes with wit, wisdom, and mental dexterity hitherto UNSEEN in modern bracketology. The near misses...the upsets...the close calls. Describes some games in the tournament, but couldn't be further from describing the GRH brackets against me. It was me in a landslide.
Hold up, Harvard called. They need someone to speak at the commencement ceremony for their renowned Comm. V. Schmidlapp School of Bracketology. Hope I can make it when I'm not using my knowledge to teach computers how to moonwalk in VEGAS.
I don't think anybody is surprised. I'm full of nothing but basketball prowess. I didn't even have to watch any basketball games this year, I JUST KNEW. I knew where to pick my spots and how I needed to proceed in my quest to become the most vaunted bracketoleger, perhaps methinks, OF ALL TIME.
How many correct Final Four picks? One. Kentucky. How much in the field? Zero. I WIN!!!
Teams don't matter as much though. You've GOTTA find the hot hand in the deck. Who's coming into the tournament looking good? Jimmer Fredette? A pale, mormony excuse of a basketball player. What about Butler's Matt Howard? He's tall, isn't he? But no, everybody, YOURS TRULY, knew Kemba Walker was about to run a train on this tournament. His shots were the ones you had to SEE TO BELIEVE. In him, I put my faith, believing he'd drag his team, kicking and scream, to at least the championship game. And he did.
Of course, I thought Kemba Walker played for Pitt, and had them in the championship game. But again, no matter. I WIN!!!
I'd like to take a moment and thank all of the people I so savagely destroyed in the process of getting mine. Lattimer: Wasn't expecting a lot out of you, but you brought out the vigor I knew you'd have. You losing was a constant source of inspiration for me, both on and off the court. No really, I was laughing to myself about it later, helped me sleep. Icehouse, Icehouse, Icehouse. You have, by far, the most basketball expertise of anyone I know, outside, of course, of myself. You came in dead last. The writing is on the wall, the stars are aligned in the western skies; you will be a great bracketeer one day. NOT TODAY, GRASSHOPPER. NOT. TO. DAY. And the rest of you unimportant flunkies whose name either escaped me or never dwelled in my august brain region: Enjoy the smell. Waft in my vapors. Take in my aura as it glides past you, seemingly effortless, but with purpose and power. You will all fall before me one day anyway. Enjoy your bipedal, upright view for the time being.
And let's score more than 60 points next year. Our brackets all sucked.