Under Pressure

Dah, Dah, Dah, Dadada, Dah, Dah, Dah, Dadada. --Queen and David Bowie. (And if you don't think I'm listening to this song as I type this, you are crazy)

I have now resolved to just stop worry about whether Creighton is in or not, and to stop pouring over all 6,000 bracket predictions on the web. Because it doesn't fucking matter. I can't control any of it, so why worry. As the great Kyle Whelliston said "Forget it, you're out." And while the Mid-Majority concentrates on discrimination against small schools versus the big ones, he's right. It doesn't matter what anyone thinks other than the committee, so while stress myself out? Why trade endless texts all week with the great Twinkie as we dissect every first round game in the Big Ten tourney. (As I type this, ESPN is saying Creighton is the second to last team in). I'm just going to settle in, watch some halfway decent hoop today, and wait for the results. Then I'm going to bitch and moan about it until the fantasy baseball draft at 10 p.m.

-As an aside, I just want to point out that I came across a 1985 Packers-Bears game on NFL network last night. It was awesome because it was the original broadcast version. Jim fucking Zorn was starting at QB, and missing a wide open Phillip Epps by like ten yards. A pre-aunt raping Mossy Cade was breaking up passes. Mike Ditka was wearing tight ass pants. Forest Gregg looked homeless. The Pack had those weird jerseys with the G on the sleeve.

-In diet news, I bought my wife an Oreo Blizzard Ice Cream cake for her birthday treat. One eighth of the cake has 760 fucking calories. Being on a diet is gay.

-How the fuck did the U.S. get mercy ruled by Puerto Rico? Also, I was one more season of Babe Ruth ball away from starting in right field for the Netherlands.