March’s Madness

People must think I’m both funny and crazy, because I’ve been walking around with a tick lately. Cute little fella, six legs, blood sucking pouches, and... Nah, I’m kidding. The tick I have is more of the medical/physical kind, where for some strange reason, I will randomly yell “Busted,” at friends and passerbys on the street.

“Can you develop Tourette’s from the stress of watching March Madness?” is what I would’ve typed into Google if I knew how to research anything or cared. Hell, I should remember the answer; it was my thesis in college. “Busted!” The stress I’m feeling watching these games is compounding nicely with my general everyday stress, and the two of them are screwing like rabbits. When I put money down on this tournament, one whole Jackson, I said “I’m getting this back two fold, just like last year.” I was wrong. “Busted!” I’m not getting it back, which couldn’t have come at a worse time, since Thanos gave his infinity gauntlet to the IRS and they’ve snapped half my bank account away. “Move over Spider-Man, I don’t feel too good either, Mr. Stark.” “Dusted!”

I think a lot of people are feeling this way, and there’s no amount of second chance bracketology that can heal these deep NCAA wounds. Turns out, watching the tournament wasn’t a foolproof recipe for making my teams win. “Busted!” Who knew? I guess it’s bigger than me, on some level. Well, until this whole stress induced nightmare is over, I bid you all safe tidings. Rest up, destress, and leave sports betting to the professionals, a.k.a. degenerate gamblers. “BUSTED!”

Avenge the Busted! (or Dusted, whichever you prefer!)