Pumpkin Chuckin'. Rock Droppin'. Basketball. I usually ignore it. Not my sport. Recently I've been sucked through the straw into the maw. The Illini and the Bulls are the mad fad rage hereabouts. So I've been watching.

If you watch sports you know where to find the mute button on your remote. All sports broadcasts use talking heads to cram their wisdom into the empty space: the pregame ad blasting, the timeout downtime, and the post game mopping. Yesterday I had to vent on a message board about the yammering gerbils affectionately referred to as "commentators" or "analysts."

Jay Bilas. I have no idea what exactly he said. When he began I was immediately struck with horror and fear and could not comprehend his words. All sound was the bleating of dying sheep as the terrifying display commenced.

When he talks he looks like he's chewing Russian prison food. His squirrel cheeks flex out and his quivering dimples twitch around like spastic commas. His bright white teeth are blinding and deadly as the reaper's scythe.

Go away, Jay Bilas. You picked Illinois on Mike & Mike's radio show this morning so I don't hate you completely. But still. Enough with the swirly psychopath eyeballing. It's killing my sperm and spoiling all the food in my fridge.

Dick Vitale needs to be reburied. Somebody unzip the skin and reveal the remote control metallic robot underneath. That voice feels like sandpaper scrubbing my armpits until they bleed. That shiny head is an antenna for alien transmissions from Pluto. Don't say "BABY!" one more time or I'll hunt you down and choke you with uncooked chicken gizzards you rooty tooty old whorebag.

There. I feel better now. All ready for tonight's game.

- - - - -

That was yesterday. Today I'm hungover and thankful for baseball. Basketball makes me twitchy. It isn't my natural diet and doesn't sit well in my stomach. I tend to lean forward and I clench my fists and my eyes get dry and I punch the air and I pull my hair.

Fuck that.

Baseball lets me sink into my chair and pick my nose in peace. I can sit under a blanket of peanut shells and popcorn kernels and fart stale beer towards the television when the pitcher walks a run home. I can sleep at night.

The Cubs won yesterday and they're in first place. April is good month for Cubs fans. 10:00 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm