8 Pound 6 Ounces Colton, Don’t Even Know a Word Yet

DISCLAIMER: This is for the people who wrote on my facebook wall yesterday. If you didn’t, aside from sucking, just stop reading now. You don’t deserve this particular blog post.

DISCLAIMER #2: Even if you read this, it makes almost no sense. It’s like part fiction, part biography, part delusions of grandeur. Basically, it’s a lot like Obama’s book, “Audacity of Hope.” Only he was serious.

So in the past, I became notorious for my personalized facebook birthday-wall-post-thank-you’s. Consistently banging out a hundred plus messages like it was just a walk in the park. Yesterday, however, I think my wall completely altered facebook forever. My computer ran slowly, I struggled to follow my fantasy baseball team, and facebook creeping came to a near-screeching halt as every five to seven minutes someone else dropped some love on my digital canvas. Sure, Verizon has been having some trouble in my area, but I think the reason behind this slowdown is obvious. Yesterday, I put up numbers that Wilt Chamberlain could be proud of. Clearly, it’s not every day I’m born. In fact, yesterday is the only day I celebrate my birth. If you missed the event, or took part and are suffering from post-partem depression, calm down, it’s only 364 short days until the next time you get to write on my wall. In between, our great country will celebrate its own birth, Jesus’ birth, George Washington’s birth, and Marisa Miller’s birth. Now I’m not saying my birth is nearly as important as all of those (with the exception of maybe G.W.), but none of those people or sovereign nations will write you a blog, either. So here we go…

If you thought anyone else would take the first spot in my birthday blog, you probably didn't know me well enough to write on my wall.

If you want to know how I came to be, I’ll forward you to the post John MacKinnon left on my wall. While it basically caused me to stare at my computer screen unblinking for about 6 minutes, it’s unfortunately most likely pretty accurate. Now that we’ve reached the point where I know I was not, in fact, dropped on the doorstep by storks, left in a basket by the Nile like Moses, or birthed through the head of Zeus like Athena, we can move on to the important things. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard about those people who can recall details from every single day of their lives, but I’m not one of them. I can only assume the thoughts going through my head while I was chilling in the womb.

For one thing, I obviously decided I wanted a Y chromosome. Can’t even imagine being a girl. Constantly persecuted for my good looks. Switching best friends every month: depending on who got hotter than me, or started a menial conflict over a guy. Spending potential alcohol money on fake nails, tans, make-up and shoes. Draining my dad’s bank account and going on a Eurotrip for “culture” that doesn’t extend itself beyond the pot in Amsterdam, the clothes in Italy, the sex in France and the stalking of Prince Harry in London. Basically, after two girls, my dad hit the jackpot with me.

Don't let that above paragraph make you think I'm not grateful for XX chromosomes like Leeann Tweeden...

After diving into the world feet first, because that’s how ballers do, I thought I’d play a little joke on everyone and fake a suicide by wrapping the umbilical cord around my neck. Talk about your all-time backfire. Everyone started freaking out and screaming and stuff. Obviously, my sense of comedic timing has improved tenfold since this original stunt, which may or may not be true for the purposes of storytelling. For the first couple years of my life, I just chilled out, mowing Gerber and soiling myself like it was going out of style. Pretty soon I started forming memories, an addiction to David the Gnome, the WWF, baseball (specifically, the Red Sox) and Strawberry Milk. This all built up to my first grade birthday party. My dad made toys for a living so he got 20, seven year olds into the company meeting room where we rated the new action figure line with a 🙂 😦 or face. I’m not sure what you call that last face, but I call it the uneasy/constipated face, depending on my mood. After some smiles, frowns and constipations, the party favors of GI Joes and Transformers were given out. My dad basically cemented my legacy as the coolest birthday host until Billy Madison started throwing his blowouts.

Sometime after this glorious first grade banger, I became disenfranchised with the whole birthday party concept. Perhaps it was due to the stretch from 3rd grade on when I stopped having parties thrown for me because of Little League All Stars, having two older sisters, and only two parents capable of getting us everywhere. The summer birthday is an amazing thing, but it does not lend itself to easy elementary school celebrations. The last day of school rarely made it to June 22, unless there were a bunch of snow days. Thus, teachers never started the day singing to me, giving me gold stars, hoodsie cups and letting me make friendship bracelets all day like the rest of the kids born between September and early June. From that point on the extent of my birthday celebration was a Wiffle ball game in the backyard while my dad grilled meat and my mom kept the pink lemonade flowing like it ain’t no thing. Sure, I never threw wild pool parties with wet t-shirt contests and chicken fight contests, that’s what ASU is for, but I was happy raking home runs into my driveway.

ASU absolutely has to be fake life. Like this does not happen...

Even my 21st birthday started off as tame as possible. When it came time to choose my stomping grounds, I selected the bar that has treated me so kindly for the two years prior to my legality. Some people turn 21 and forget about the little people, make new friends who can go to the cool bars and ditch everything else. I paid homage to the old reliable J Tree by having my party there. Even though the original plan involved going after midnight so I could use my real ID, people got drunk and antsy and I decided I’d just use the Maine, 23 year-old version of myself one last time. After eight of my friends got kicked out of the bar in three distinct incidents, the next thing I knew I was being pulled from a cab and thrown to the ground. Apparently the poor townie whose friends took her to JTree for her bachelorette party told her fiancee to meet up with them?! Who knew…

Which brings us to present day. While I may never forgive my family for the toys and riches I missed out on from all those lost childhood birthdays, I take solace in the fact that I’m not one of those painfully annoying people who start birthday countdowns, create entire weekend agendas mapping out each afternoon and night using adjectives like: “sloshed” “Shwasted” “wasteyfaced” or even the repugnant combination, “shwastyfaced.” After all that self-promotion, how can anybody expect people to actually care that their day meant anything at all. I guess not everyone can rely on great friends to flood their wall all day with well wishes without that kind of promotion. If you read this post until now, you truly earned this thank you. And this…

Just wouldn't be a birthday blog without Rosie Jones. PS- googling her and finding anything with clothes on is getting tougher and tougher. It's amazing what the Revolver has done for her career.

 

 

Smorgasblog: Rondo’s Elbow, Hummus, Marisa Miller and my Mom

I haven’t done a Smorgasblog in a little while, and after a weekend getting sexually assaulted by a blackjack table, the tiny asian temptress who dealt those satanic hands, the devil spawn of an ATM machine that dispensed my money, and whiskey on the rocks, I doubt I’d be able to string together enough coherent words for one awesome blog topic (like the Night Party Bus Addendum, coming later this week!). See, just then I somehow decided it made sense to write one run-on sentence with five commas in it. I even re-read it to make sure it sounded okay, and walked away satisfied with the start to this blog. Let’s just get to the smorgas’ing. This blog brought to you by British Pop star Cheryl Cole, because she looks decent etc.

Le'go.

RONDO’S ELBOW

This one time, I banged my elbow on a gym door latch right before warmups and wouldn’t you know, it hit my funny bone. Searing waves of pain fired across seemingly every synaptic vesicle in my brain as I thought, “sweet baby Jesus, take me now.” I thought for sure my career would be cut short. Thankfully, the pain subsided in about 37 seconds and I didn’t miss a shot in the layup line. I was eight years old in this imaginary tale being used to draw a comparison to Rajon Rondo on Saturday night.

Just 15 years after this harrowing falsified anecdote, I cannot comprehend how Rondo played with a gimp, dislocated left arm the other night. More inexplicable, is how the Miami Heat refused to overplay and deny him going right. If you watched the replay hammered drunk, you would have known an elbow shouldn’t bend like Rondo’s did. Even if you weren’t hammered drunk, you may have arrived at that fact. To compare what Rondo did to the embarrassment of the Lakers yesterday would be a disservice to homeless people. Because they try harder in life than the Lakers did on the court. So I guess, what I’m saying is, the Lakers compare more favorably to homeless people than Rondo, but still not very favorably to society?

By the way, this could be the turning point in the Heat-Celtics series. KG played like it was 1999 (not to be read like that terribly catchy song about partying like it’s, well, you get it), Paul Pierce is back in a groove, and Chris Bosh has openly admitted that it’s his time of the month and the Boston crowd gave him the jitters. For the record, only an emasculated man who got turned into KG’s housewife says the word “jitters.” Sprinkle in the fact that DWade has been playing dirty and Shaq may have to knock him into the off-season, and I think we have a seven game series on our hands.

Anybody else’s skin crawling after that awkwardness? “Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

HUMMUS & WHEAT THINS

They are like the Portman-Kunis lesbian scene in Black Swan. Feeding off each other’s passion, beauty and dedication to their roles, they create one of the most satisfying feelings ever. There is literally no hummus size tub that can hold me down. Yesterday I started in on a “Party Size” tub that serves 16. If that was a “party” it would have been over fast, and no one would have gotten buzzed, let alone laid.  Since the age of six, I’ve “snack”ed in the way Charlie Sheen bangs a rock. Even though my mom regularly purchased low sodium Wheat Thins, I’d salt those bitches up and go to town, tearing through boxes like a rapper on tour in an Atlanta suburb. So, when my palate matured enough to fully appreciate the heavenly, tangy spread of hummus atop the crystalline encrusted top of a Wheat Thin, the greatest snack combo known to man burgeoned.

Hummus: meet Wheat Thins.

WELCOME TO THE TWITTERVERSE, MARISA!

You're probably not as ready as Marisa is for summer...

This weekend, Twitter finally reached a level of credibility in my eyes: Marisa Miller joined. Prior to this event, Twitter essentially acted as a way for me to add one more layer of social media to my internet experience, which as some of you may know, is my Super Bowl. Now, my twitterverse has been flipped upside down. Left is right. Up is down. Ochocinco going to Target is no longer the highlight of my feed. Marisa Miller struggling to grasp the re-tweet is just another update on my timeline. Prior to this, I used Twitter like the bastard half-brother to Facebook after Zuckerberg messed around with the postman. It got to the point where I attempted to stay relevant on Twitter through people solely tweeting at me. Relevance through absence is power, after all. I know, that shit is deep, so go ahead and breathe that in once more. Relevance through absence is power. Now, I just want to tweet all the live long day knowing Marisa Miller is doing the same thing. She’s muploading fly shots of her at the Kentucky Derby, and wearing the living hell out of any article of cloth that attempts to cover her body. Just the other day, she tweeted her newest Esquire summer shoot, which you already had to cut your inseam out over.

MOTHER’S DAY

Better late than never. Better never than late. I choose, “There is an immeasurable distance between late and too late” by American author Og Mandingo, for the obvious reason that his last name was Mandingo. Feel free to insert any other time-related idiom, but my mom is pretty awesome. She birthed me, then taught me lots of stuff along the way. Perhaps her most amazing trait, aside from the ability to dominate Jeopardy on a nightly basis whilst reading some form of literature at the same time, is her love for sports. Growing up, “bedtime” came when the Red Sox ended. For this blog’s sake, I am thankful for that. She corrected my school papers with the fine-toothed comb any English major-turned-journalist/newspaper editor would. By third grade, she held my subject-verb agreements in contempt. When high school began, passive voice gave her active rage. College applications rolled around, and she deemed me “frustrating” and “mediocre” as a writer. Two high compliments. If she were to read my blog, it would probably cause a sinking feeling that shakes her very core, similar to the realization of swallowing a full curd in sour milk. While it is doubtful she would swell with pride upon reading the Revolver, she did provide the sturdy foundation to support this house of cards I masquerade as a blog with widely delusional, humorous thoughts. Like lipstick on a pig, such is Colt’s Revolver. Love you, Mom.

NSFW due to an F bomb, obvi. Is it even worth warning you guys at this point? I mean, if your boss walked by while you were reading, he/she already knows what’s good…

Stay tuned…

Disney World: Magic in Recession!

In case you weren’t sure, the economy is still a mess. Wisconsin House Rep. Paul Ryan (R) presented a budget plan yesterday that says by 2037, our GDP will so far exceed the national debt (by 800%) that the Congressional Budget Office “can’t conceive of any way” for the economy to continue at its current trajectory. Well, shit, Paul, I guess I just need to bide my time for the next 26 years until everyone’s in my financial boat. I use the term”boat” loosely, as it is more like a toilet seat floating across the frigid waters off the coast of Nova Scotia, but I digress. Does anyone know what happens when the economy ceases to exist? Should I spend the next 26 years stockpiling

Recession proof.

precious metals? Maybe that’s why the lady in Georgia (country, not Peaches) destroyed all of Armenia’s internet digging for copper? Perhaps society turns to the prison cast system and cigarettes are currency? This may be good news for me, but it’s probably not great for civilization. Unfortunately, when the economy starts to suck, most other things that used to be cool, start sucking, too (except my blog, baseball and Marisa Miller, obviously).

In this particular case of other things sucking when the economy sucks, I’m talking about Disney World. My family and I went on vacation recently for a long-weekend getaway in which my dad spoke at the annual GI Joe Convention (he’s kind of a big deal). Naturally, with my blog in mind, I made some mental notes about Disney World as the trip progressed. I also spent a day at Universal Studios to see “The Wizarding World of Harry Potter” (I’m a closet fanatic), so some notes will include the glorious tribute to the nerdiest thing about me (unless collecting Pokemon cards in fifth and sixth grades counts… which it obviously doesn’t. First in the class with a complete first edition set, multiple girls asking my color requests for friendship string braceletes on the reg, first pick in dodgeball on the reg, the Denali, good times on the reg, yachts on the reg).

Here’s the official list of what sucks about Disney/is awesome about Harry Potter World.

#1- Wheelchairs on Buses: Goddamn America is getting as fat and/or old as the day is long. You know it’s bad when being obese has become a legitimate handicap. I can’t tell you how many people are just rocking out in wheelchairs like it’s en vogue or something. Shameless motherf*%$ers too. Just wiggling their legs in the bitch like theirs no tomorrow. Regular old Gene Kelly’s tap dancing their asses off in that wheelchair. Used to be, you only got a wheelchair if you were paralyzed back in ‘Nam. Nowadays, all you have to do is be so heinously obese you could seize up from anaphylactic shock to bodily movement.

Unfortunately, you don’t only have to deal with the fatties in wheelchairs. Apparently, there’s just a certain age where you qualify for a wheelchair/Rascal to move around, regardless of how functioning your legs may be. I guess it comes with your AARP card? Look, I’m all for the geriatric movement. People are getting older every single day. It’s science. I get it. But if you want to get all old, and still partake in the miracle that is strolling Disney World with your great-great grandchild who you regale with Civil War tales from your days of yore, I gotta draw the line. There comes a time in every self-respecting old person’s life where they just have to embrace “Depends” and sit around in their own filth watching PBS. Personally, I can think of no nobler way to go out. Guns blazing, diaper strapped.

I’ll never forget one of the most classic quotes I ever heard my grandfather drop. Back when my aunt broke her knee and wanted to go to the mall in a wheelchair, he plainly stated, “You’re a cripple, you don’t go out in public. You don’t show weakness.” Total bad ass, my grandpa. Homie is still climbing and repairing pitched roofs three stories up while all I do is hold the ladder for him. America could learn a thing or nine from him. If you want to be fat or old to the point of immobility, you better prepare to sacrifice some perks. Like Disney’s public transportation.

#2- Disney’s Public Transportation System.

Picture the scene: 48 men and women are watching you; angry, hot, tired and toting a passed out child covered in glitter, face paint and Tinkerbell dust. Slowly, a mechanized plank descends from the back door. You could ride Splash Mountain in the time it takes for that plank to reach ground level. Then, waving the white flag of utter dependancy, you get wheeled onto the plank by a Disney employee. If the painful descent down wasn’t enough, you are now on full display as that plank embarks on its treacherous ascent back into that back door. While all those 48 people have over two minutes to let their emotions come to a boil, you are now public enemy number one. You are the person, who got wheeled up to the bus stop, cut the entire line, and somehow, got your family on the bus too.

It cuts to the core value of present-day America’s pride. People have no shame. I made this problem #2 with Disney, and not just another aspect of the wheelchair problem discussed in issue #1 because the public transportation system, as a whole, is flawed. You’re a shmuck if you aren’t staying on the monorail in Disney World. Trust me on this. Sack up and plunk down the extra $100 a night and don’t mix with the everyday serfs who hoist foldable strollers onto buses that aren’t running as frequently as years before, as they mutter their way through another “magical” journey to one of the parks.

#3 Americans Just Aren’t Happy

When the economy sucks, people start sucking as much as anything else. That’s the current state of America. Everyone is just sucking. Frankly, if I’m a parent in present-day America, I’m home-schooling my kids and censoring their immersal into social media of any form just to stop them from knowing about Mickey Mouse and his goddamn world. First off, there’s no way in hell I’m going to Disney World and letting some redneck from Alabama show me up by getting his daughter the supreme princess package at Cinderella’s castle for 300 bucks. Complete with a gown, hair and makeup, MaryAnnLouise Countrybum isn’t outshining my future, hypothetical daughter around Magic Kingdom. Problem is, MaryAnnLouise’s daddy just re-financed the trailer to pay for everything she wants. Granted, her imaginary father may be better than my future, hypothetical fatherhood, but that guy is ruining it for every other self-respecting father walking around Disney World.

Unfortunately, that’s not even the biggest problem. The single biggest problem in Disney World are these goddamn red, light up Mickey Mouse ear ballons, that are inside a larger clear balloon. Every little kid wants one, and once one gets it, the shitstorm has just started for every other parent in the park. I don’t even blame these people for walking around pissed off all day. If I just got bludgeoned by my toddlers tears into paying $8 for a f*%#ing balloon, I’d yuke all over myself, then lap it up like a sick dog. Then, when you’re done vomming, the kid gives YOU the balloon to carry all day since they suck and got bored with it after 6.2 seconds, because, let’s be honest, it’s a balloon for f*@k’s sake. Meanwhile, back on the ranch, you’re middling through a Dow Jones drop due to all these wars in the Middle East, the rise in oil prices, and you just had your 401k cut in half. Of course Americans aren’t happy. Even in Disney World!

#4 Harry Potter World is Sex

Not gonna lie, I expected it to be bigger. But “The Wizarding World of Harry Potter” located inside Universal’s Islands of Adventure is a must-see for any Harry Potter fan. I’m talking, all ages, but especially the 18-25 demographic. You see, us 20-somethings grew up with Harry. His first book came out

Hogwarts new dress code?

sometime in elementary school and went right up through college for many of us. Sipping on a butterbeer, gnawing at a Turkey leg and buying a personalized wand only add to the fact that this place took all the images from the books, and made them a reality, for the low park-entry price of 82 dollars (or, $132 if you’re like me and upgraded to skip all the lines, thus ensuring a complete Harry experience).

 

Add to all that glory the fact that there are just tons of fine muggle chicks in their 20s living out a wizarding fantasy and you really have a dream scenario for a guy like me. I’m just saying, you find a pureblood walking around Hogsmeade, and the best pickup line possible is, “Hey, toots, wanna make a mudblood?” If you didn’t get that joke, don’t worry, you just suck and don’t like Harry Potter.

#5 Universal is Disney’s Slutty Counterpart

The title here says it all. It’s just an older, trashier, Six Flags feel going down at Universal. Tramp stamps all over the place. Latin chicks with their shirts all tied up. University of Central Florida coeds tearing up the park for one of their senior events (if you went when I did, at least). It’s a totally different vibe. Their rides are more dangerous than Disney’s and require kids to be way taller and test out the seats to make sure they fit. The flooms legitimately soak you to the point of being uncomfortable. There are less employees, less garbage barrels, more weird hair beading places, and an overall less appealing family atmosphere. If Disney is Jennifer Aniston, Universal is Angelina Jolie.

Stay Tuned…



March “Madness” an A Propos Name in 2011

It’s true, I just broke out my french-english on all your asses to describe the upcoming NCAA Tournament as “fitting.” Now I’m going to act chivalrous and rendezvous with all of you to share my tourney espionage work. That is literally all the french-english words I care to ever think about, since my affinity for France ends at fry or toast. Isn’t Joakim Noah French? Uff the French. But seriously, this year above all others, the one-and-done player in college basketball has finally created a bracket more “mad” and unpredictable than a Charlie Sheen orgy after banging a seven gram rock and chilling in his theater room. All day I’ve just been scouring reports on upsets, sleepers, favorites, blue-bloods, cinderellas, giants, giant killers, mid-majors, major-majors, intermediary-majors, sub-terranian-majors and every other term you can imagine to describe teams in this tournament. My head is spinning, this is the only thing that makes sense to me at this point…

I know, it's not even a random hot girl. Just this basic, nothing to write home about shot of Megan Fox looking all sweaty and perfect.

Beyond the #1 seeds, who are still vulnerable in latter rounds, I have seen legitimate arguments made for EVERY SINGLE favorite to get upset in the first round. Alas, have no fear, devout Revolver Reader! I am here to make sense of things for you… using the tried and true formula of comparing sports to hot women. I will get you through the important factors of this upcoming tournament. Because, if there’s two things I do well, one of them is dominating an NCAA bracket (or at least staying alive until the Elite 8 weekend) and the other is destroying entire tubs of hummus in a single sitting.

So now, I’m just sitting here crushing roasted red pepper hummus staring at a bracket with more cross-outs than Schindler’s List (does that joke even make sense? Did Schindler cross people off his list? Is it even his list, or is he on it? Should I watch the movie before I offend people? If it’s “Too Soon” my bad), trying to make sense of things. At this point, there’s a solid chance that I’ll be watching the first round, making comments like: “SHIT! I KNEW THEY WOULD WIN, I ENDED UP TAKING THE OTHER TEAM IN MY FINAL BRACKET, BUT AT ONE POINT, BACK IN ‘NAM, I DEFINITELY HAD THEM FILLED IN!” By now, you’re probably waiting for a hot girl comparison, so let’s get into this chinese fire drill of a basketball tournament.

THE MARISA MILLER  “DOUBLESHOTS”

The Best of the Best

Ohio State, Kansas

Just two teams get the distinction of being in the Marisa Miller group: flawless. Much like Marisa, they bring the total package to the table. It’s rare you find an inside-out threat that is so complete, but with both of these teams, their multi-faceted approach can burn you down low (Sullinger for OSU, the Morris twins for Kansas) or up top (Diebler and Buford for OSU, Morningstar and Reed for Kansas). These teams are eerily similar to the way Marisa can torture you, whether you are looking up top, or down low on her bikini, or lack thereof.

THE MINKA KELLY “MINXES”

Near-perfect, with that nagging question mark...

Duke, Pittsburgh, Notre Dame, UNC, UCONN, Purdue

Downgraded like Minka is for dating Derek Jeter, a Yankee manwhore who offers her nothing, aside from his 300+ million in career earnings, all of these teams are flawed in some way. Duke is without star frosh PG Kyrie Irving, and Kyle Singler can’t throw the ball in the ocean from the middle of a Kayak, right now. Pittsburgh doesn’t have the go-to star that is so often needed in March. Notre Dame lacks athleticism (a nice way to say they are too white) and cannot defend. North Carolina has never pieced it together all year as their supposed savior, Harrison Barnes, has only shown flashes of dominance. UConn has Kemba Walker and a bunch of question marks, plus they may be too drained after their five games in five days Big East tournament win. Purdue has the great PG in E’twaun Moore, and the top notch center in JaJuan Johnson, but the season-ending injury to sniper-wing Robbie Hummel leaves them without a solid wing option.

THE SCARLETT JOHANSSON “BOMBSHELLS”

Big names, but not going anywhere this year...

Kentucky, Florida, Syracuse, Louisville

Calipari, Donovan, Boeheim, Pitino… Johansson. Sure, the names on the jerseys and in the coaching boxes are sexy as all hell, just like Scarlett. Sure, they’ve got Final Fours, National Championships,  blue-chip recruits and talent all over, just like Scarlett. Sure, they’ll be marginally successful, just like Scarlett. But, ultimately, they’ve got too much baggage to make any real noise this year. Just like Scarlett is rebounding from a messy divorce and no truly memorable acting roles (seriously, IMDb her… weak), all of these coaches and teams are rebounding from divorces: Kentucky lost John Wall, DeMarcus Cousins and Eric Bledsoe from last year’s team. Or unmemorable performances/rosters: quick, name three players on Florida, Louisville or Syracuse. If you aren’t a big-time basketball fan, there’s no way you can do that. Even if you are, it’s only because you just watched the conference tournament games.

THE KATE UPTON “UPSTARTS”

Who?

Utah St., Belmont, Richmond, Oakland, Morehead St.

SI’s Swimsuit Edition breakout model, that’s who! Never heard of her!? Well here are some sleepers for your pool you probably haven’t heard of either… Utah St., Belmont, Richmond, Oakland and Morehead St. For the most part, just take my word on some of these teams. If you don’t want to take mine, take a bunch of experts and geeks who do NCAA analysis for a living. Utah St. was dominant all year and got seeded far lower than most expected. Belmont and Richmond are two complete teams that got unlucky with tough first-round draws (Wisconsin and Vanderbilt, respectively). Oakland (6’11” center Keith Benson) and Morehead St. (NCAA All-time Rebound leader Kenneth Faried) have legitimate NBA talents on their rosters who could dominate a first-round match-up long enough to spring the huge upset. Just like Kate Upton can dominate a swimsuit long enough to spring a huge… well, you get it.

FINAL THOUGHTS

Lucy Pinder almost represented my unheard of teams, but then I realized I needed a chick hot enough to defend my genius final thoughts.

This blog honestly took more time finding appropriate hot girl-team matchups than my actual wit, so I’m going to use this space to give some final tips.

1- If your team’s best player is known as a “streetball legend” think twice before you pick them (St. John’s- Dwight Hardy). Do you want some And 1 mixtape wannabe getting called for a carry on the final possession? Didn’t think so. Quadruple-double this rule if the opposing team has a point guard who is the offspring of John Stockton (Gonzaga’s PG just so happens to be John’s son, David). If you think this rule is simply racist, well, there may be some validity, as long as Jesse Jackson is arguing for you. Otherwise, it’s simply smart.

2- When in doubt in the later rounds, take the team who will actually get to the game. I know, this sounds odd… you picked both teams to get there! But now, go back and decide who has the toughest matchups en route. If you are at a legitimate 50-50 on the game pick, pick against the team with the tougher road. It’s like when you have to decide what equally hot girl you’d rather hook up with. One is at the bar. The other requires a long cab ride with a man from Yemen. Simple choice.

3- Mascots can definitely break a tie. Seriously. You think if St. Peter’s wasn’t an abysmal 14 seed playing a ridiculously tough Purdue Boilermakers team that I’m not taking the Peacocks all day long?! You’re crazy. Seriously, how did I not go to St. Peter’s. Just Peacocking the living hell out of every day of college. Sporting technicolor button downs, silk clothing and shoes that make Liberace sweat. One solid example of the old mascot tie-breaker this year can be seen in the 6-11 matchup between Cincy and Missouri. Sure, Cincinnati is a Bearcat, but Missouri is a legitimate TIGER. An effing TIGER, bro. Not some androgynous half-bear-half-kitten made up beast. Mike Tyson has a Tiger. Tigger, from Winnie the Pooh is a Tiger (I think) and a damn G. Go Mizzou!

4- Big Men Matter. This is basketball, after all. When you were playing pickup hoops, did you take the big kid AFTER the little kid who could shoot good and do other things good, too?! Nope. You took that big sweaty kid who no one could, nor wanted to guard. In this case, Ohio State and Kansas are sporting some of the biggest kids. Dallas Lauderdale and Jared Sullinger are legit Center-Power Forward manbeasts for the Buckeyes. If you don’t trust me, just ask their equipment guy who has to wring the devil’s ass sweat out of those shorts every single day. Kansas has the Morris twins, who are a testament to modern child-birthing miracles. Seriously, if Marcus and Markieff’s mom lived during biblical ages, she would have no doubt passed out and died popping out not one, but two of these behemoths. I pray she took an epidural, got a C-section, or just transferred her womb into a massive pod, Wolverine style. Added props to Ms. Morris for naming one of them Markieff. She knew his homies would be pronouncing Markeith that way anyway, so she saved them the embarrassment.

5- Fire up the computers at work, get ready to hit the “Boss Button”, (CBS’ genius creation that quickly turns their live telecast feed into a pdf document to fake out a boss, for those who actually work) and get ready to be pissed off. This year, like no other, I predict we will see more upsets than ever. When this many marginally good, marginally bad teams are in one tournament, it’s bound to happen. Thankfully, I will know every single one of those upsets as I stroll to another bracket victory.

Stay tuned.