A Smoking Pair of Boots

That's all that's left of Minions' bracket. It became apparent by the end of the first round that this was no ordinary tournament; a pair of true upsets and an 8-9 game or two were the only deviations from the chalk. The day thereafter, Minions officially lost interest when Maryland played so badly against a pretty crappy mid-major that its only hope of victory lay in decent officiating; good luck with that. And the day after that, Minions was declared legally dead when Texas, Virginia Tech, and Wisconsin all bit the big one in ridiculous displays of ineptitude.

Dignity and some other things* require that Minions stick by its unfortunate prediction that the Fuckeyes of the Official Land Grant University of the State of Ohio will win the tournament. Even if that happens and Minions is, technically, vindicated (in some tiny and mostly technical way), Minions' wife is going to kick its ass, because she also has OSU to win.

But it is not to be. Florida is smokin' hot, dood. I hate them and I'm pretty sure God does to, but what the fuck is to love about this Final Four? The successful title defense is there, waiting to happen, compounded by the football-basketball Florida-OSU thing, and the impending departure of Greasy Billy Donovan for Lexington, Kentucky--another news item sure to drive Our Friend Goth one step closer to a rope in the garage.

Hence, Minions' silence. Only now, after the dearth of anything to like in the Final Four, can I finally simmer down and write about the smoking rubble that has been the last two weeks of basketball.

Kudos to Georgetown; I hate the Hoyas so much that I was very nearly hoping that UNC would beat them. I was more hoping for a random act of terrorism by a vengeful and angry Old Testament God, but I understand the limits of reason, and I concluded that, if a gun were held to my head in demand of a preference, ACC loyalty would win out. But l'chaim** to the Hoyas; coming back from 11 down and holding the Heels scoreless for 80 percent of an overtime is Pure Comedy Gold.

Kudos to UCLA; I hate them very, very much, after a 50-point second-round drubbing of the Terrapins some years ago. But goddam are their cheerleaders hot. Those little blue shifts? The basketball jerseys and not much else? Mwah!

There are many who will call this the most boring NCAA tournament evahr. I'm with them. Matters are not helped by the Terrapin women choking on a Mississippi team (and grats to them--they've a shot at the Final Four tonight) that they absolutely firebombed just four months ago.

I'm sure that energy will overcome me at some point, and I'll manage to post something less self-indulgent. Or not. See you then.

*Mostly a desire to fuel the crazed paranoia of Our Friend Goth.
**And t'voyu mat.

Cher Does Coach K

You might think all this hatin' unseemly. Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.

In other stories, Rahm Emanuel is a megafucktard. Seems he told new Dem congresscritters to stay away from the Colbert show. Because he's afraid Colbert will make them look bad.

I have no words for this kind of asshattery, really. We just might want to reconsider that whole putting-Rahm-Emanuel-in-charge-of-getting-people-elected thing, though, if he's going to be all fascist about it. What a dipshit.

Enjoy part two of the holiday. Minions record so far? An acceptable, respectable, but unspectacular 12-4. We'll see what sorts of apple carts get upset today.

Not Worth Waiting For

(Updated! Scroll down. Or read the post, then scroll down.)

But I made you wait anyway. It's the first of two consecutive national holidays--on my planet, anyway--my two favorite days of the year, when I pretend that guessing the outcomes of more than 50 percent of a collection of basketball games is a good thing. Welcome to Minions' NCAA tournament preview.

We're talking the men, of course. For the women, just take my Terps, shut up, and make sure that there is a clear path to your kidneys so that you do not waste any of Miss Christie Tolliver's valuable time.

East Region

This region belongs by rights to either Texas or the Fuckheels. Georgetown is sparklingly overrated (but likely to reach the regional final by virtue of weak opposition). Washington State is about as good a long-shot first-round upset bet as there is, as painful as it is to write "Oral Roberts" on your bracket sheet. The rest? Do not sparkle.

Early Upsets: Arkansas, Oral Roberts, Texas Tech

Can't Die Quickly Enough For Me: Michigan State, USC, George Washington, BC, Georgetown

Secret Minions East Region Fetish: Vanderbilt. I want Texas to win the region, but the notion of Vandy competing in the SEC just cracks me way the fuck up.

Winner: Texas. Tyler Hansborough is a big donkey pussy.

South Region

A wild region that the Fuckeyes of Ohio State cannot fail to win. When you write them down on your sheet, chant the following: "We love Fuckeyes, isn't that odd? We love Fuckeyes, we're taunting God."

Then doff your cap in the direction of Cincinnati, where Chief Fuckeye Gothmog is cursing my name.

O-ver-Ray-ted: Virginia.

Early Upsets: Xavier (technically), and maybe Long Beach State, although that's a hard one to feel great about.

Don't Discount: Louisville--Rick Pitino is a dirty bitch. Also, while I despise the Aggies to the very core of my being, I must admit that they are a dangerous team.

Can't Die Quickly Enough For Me: Texas A&M, OSU, Virginia, Louisville, Stanford

Secret Minions South Region Fetish: Penn. But let's be realistic here.

Winner: OSU, although the regional final against John Calipari's Memphis Tigers might be good for some fireworks. Especially if it's against the Aggies instead.

West Region

What a skankho of a region. I'm looking for Kansas to bite the big one pretty early, the first 1-seed to tank, quite possibly in the second round against Villanova or UK. This may actually be the most interesting region, despite the presence of UCLA.

O-ver-Ray-ted: Pitt. Way the fucking fuck overrated. Also: Saluki.

Early Upsets: Holy Cross over the Salukis. Nova over UK, but only as a technicality. And finally, the upset that dare not speak its name, because so many other fuckers are speaking it that it's jinxed to hell and gone. Don't say it! Seriously, shut the fuck up!

Don't Discount: VTech, as much as I hate to say it.

Can't Die Quickly Enough For Me: VTech. I mean, duh. Also: UCLA, Pitt, Puke, SIU, Illinois, and Kansas.

Secret Minions West Region Fetish: A quick obligatory wank in the direction of VCU, which is the one of Ilse's 946 almas mater from which she actually obtained a degree.

Winner: Tough one. I'm taking VTech--again, painful but something that strikes me as abundantly plausible in the ebb and flow of the universe.

Midwest Region

Sure smells like Florida's region, doesn't it? Sadly, I must recuse myself from this one. Personal interest, refusal to taunt God, you understand. But here:

O-ver-Ray-ted: Butler. Also, Oregon, but that's way overshadowed by the moronic mid-major love that Butler's sucking up like a dry sponge. And finally, sadly: The University of Maryland. That ACC tournament loss to Miami put me right back squarely in the position of not really trusting my Terps all that much. I expect the Sweet Sixteen, but only because their subregion is soft.

Early Upsets: Not the one all you Terp-hating assholes are picking. ODU (the one of Ilse's 946 almas mater that she did not attend) over Butler. Tech over UNLV.

Don't Discount: Tech. They're mighty solid, and Paul Hewitt is a seriously sneaky fuck.

Can't Die Quickly Enough For Me: Florida, Arizona, Purdue, Butler, Notre Dame, Oregon, UNLV, and Tech.

Secret Minions Midwest Region Fetish: I don't think we can characterize this one as a secret.

Winner: Those wacky Badgers, in a regional final matchup that you are not expecting.

Final Four

We love Fuckeyes, isn't that odd? We love Fuckeyes, we're taunting God.

In a marvelously boring rerun of the Big Ten tournament final, OSU gobsmacks those wacky, but slightly out of their element Badgers, once again. Or maybe they do it to VTech, in the mother of all meteor games.

This concludes another Triumph of Emotion Over Science in Basketball Writing. Enjoy the holiday weekend.

Update Update Update: One quarter of the way through the first round, Minions stands at Oh For Three on upset picks, primarily because there have been no upsets (!) as yet. I can make an argument for One For Four, because I was right that Davidson wouldn't upset Maryland; but it's a pretty shitty argument. It's 6:09 PM Eastern, GWU is going down hard (My Local Locality Basketball Principle Number One: Teams Named George Suck Turkish Sailors' Bottoms for Nickels and Like It), and Minions will manfully take its 5-3 record for the first set and settle in to scrounge through leftovers and watch whatever My Local CBS Affiliate dishes up.

Oh, and thanks, commenter Purple, for letting us know, here, on the fucking Internets, that your parents had sex in Blacksburg and that you may or may not have been the result. We will look forward to the next installment in your ongoing series, "Places Where My Parents Have Shagged." Dood, I don't even know your parents and I'm devastatingly creeped out by the thought of them bumping uglies. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go Photoshop some fake porn of the She-Nurse of the SS and John the Daftist and post it on your fucking Web site.

Gone Daddy Gone

bDr's reminder that Country Dick Montana should be memorialized in every town square in America got me to thinking about times gone by. We really have a luxury skate here in the 21st century, if we can remember that the current administration is an ephemeral thing (bit by bit, if necessary, as bDr indirectly reminds). Warning: the next paragraph might should be followed by "You damn kids get off my yard!"

In the 1980s, long gone, we had a real and well-founded fear of death. Daily. It was the tail end of the Cold War, baby, although we didn't know it yet. All we knew was that we had one seriously crazy motherfucker of a President, and he was gonna get us all killed before heading off to the Great Ranch in the Sky to chop wood and command vengeful American submariners through an irradiated eternity full of dead Commies.

Previous generations had their Vietnams and their love-ins and their far-higher-quality acid. What we had was crappy jobs, plentiful and easily available drugs, and the ability to get massively jacked, go out, and slam into each other to punk, neopunk, postpunk, pomopunk, punkabilly, and metapunk bands. There was no point to life. Our jobs were disposable, our bodies were anything but temples, and the music was all there was. Well, there was sex, too.

But that's another rant involving velociraptors, chest-deep snow uphill both ways, and Ilse having lived a life never having seen the Slickee Boys. Hats off to Country Dick. I don't wish it were still the 80s, but I can sure miss them just fine.

We Now Return to Good Old Soft Bigotry

Beloved commenter Doctor Death is sweet to be concerned, but need not fear for my neighbors in the wake of Maryland's stunningly crapalicious choke on Miami in the ACC tournament. Not even for Malkin, who may or may not be a neighbor. I've already committed to a strategy for dealing with her, no matter what the weather.

I'm manful enough to belly up and admit when I've made a mistake, and I made one of the oldest in preparing myself mentally for this year's ACC tournament. Simply put, I forgot what works: The soft bigotry of low expectations never disappoints. Shame on me for losing sight of that.

Hats off to Miami, and especially to their coach, Frank Haith, who has yet to lose a basketball game to Gary Williams. Haith's game plan slowed the game to a crawl, and his big boys crashed the boards hard on offense, racking up 23 second-chance points. No matter that half of those were the result of thuggery; if you're getting away with it, what are you gonna do, say no?

And the Terps showed what they're made of on a day when DJ Strawberry leaves his A game in some coed's vagina; they're made of gawky elbows, arrogance, and freshman panic. DJ recovered enough of his mojo in the second half to help spark a comeback, and the Terps were within a point with a minute or so left. But after one bad possession, they were down three, and couldn't manage to score in the final possession. They got off a decent shot that missed, and grabbed the rebound. But then, unwarrantedly cocky freshman Grievous Vasquez cranked up a panicky, windmilling, awkward 3 from the corner with about 5 seconds left, rather than attempting one more pass (as he should have done, since he was double-teamed by people bigger than he). He was fouled, and blatantly so, while shooting it, but machts nichts. He didn't deserve to go to the line for that shit, and I don't think I'd have called the foul, either.

So I will quietly do other things for the weekend, while Ilse and her mother watch what remains of the ACC tournament. I will stoke myself with a complete lack of confidence in my team. I will remind myself that they are mortal. And I will hope that this leads to a nice 2- or 3-game run in the NCAA tournament, which is really more than anyone with a spark of reason or sanity could have hoped for these boys in the first place.

Notes on Current Events

-I don't give a flying fuck about Scooter Libby, who was dumb enough to perjure himself to cover his boss's attempt to have a covert CIA operative killed out of political spite. I note only this: if you dare to compare Libby's perjury about acts of treason with Bill Clinton's untruths about getting blowjobs, you are, quite simply, an asshole who forfeits the right to be taken seriously--in fact, it's really a shame that you probably have the right to vote, because you're not bright enough to exercise it responsibly and the rest of us will have to put serious thought and time into countering the effects of your coinflipping limbic system.

Other than that, Fitzmas just isn't doing much for me, and the notion that fascist jerkoffs are assholes isn't really news anyway.

And just because it's becoming my traditional political signoff: Fuck you, Purple.

-Yes, Mme. Malkin and Mlle. Coulter are bad people. My suggestion is this: if you run into Mlle. Coulter, just cover your asscheeks and walk away quickly, because that bitch has a 10-inch cock and she wants it enveloped in your asspussy. As for Mme. Malkin, I think the best way to handle a personal encounter is to smile benignly and say, not too loudly, "BOO!" If she's lucky, she'll be wearing her Depends. If not? Pure comedy gold for you.

-I am settling in for some basketball. Little else matters: work, sleep, food, child care are all simply things that must be done to enable watching my various Terpses stumble toward whatever fate holds for them over the next few weeks. I am in Turtle Warrior mode.

I've been more in love with the boys, since they beat the University of the Color of the Sky and ran the table for their last seven games, but the mystery and deep-seated fear remain; if they win the ACC tournament, they will die a horrible and early death in the NCAAs. If they are humbled by Miami on Thursday or BC on Friday, it's too early; if they are humbled by Virginia on Sunday, it will be equally devastating, because how can you claim to have a penis if you lose to Virginia three times in one season? No, this is a must-lose-on-Saturday proposition, and the likely opponent that day? The University of the Color of the Sky, of course, which is looking eminently beatable, what with Tyler Hansborough in a tizz about his busted-up face.

The women? Ah, the women. A semifinal loss in the ACC tournament to the brazen harlot pirate hooker thugs from the University of the Color of the Sky, of course. But we saw that movie last year, and that turned out to be a damned good movie with a damned good ending, and for this year? The game that counts remains. Anything less than the Final Four will be a disaster for the girls, although a loss in the Eight will be no horrible surprise; these things tend toward a certain entropy, after all. I will sit and hope for Miss Christie Tolliver's upcoming date with Miss Ivory Latta's kidneys. Those girls just plain don't like each other, hoss.