Sometimes it’s great to live in a country where Presidents forget the definition of is, Jimmer becomes a popular baby name, and the closest our children come to learning mathematics begins and ends with Octomom. But, sometimes the best part about tithing (and then some) to Uncle Sam with the prospect of getting peanut shells in return is the ability to somehow link an Arkansas football coach with a Venezuelan baseball manager all in one week filled with buffoonery.
I took a Sabbatical from this year’s NCAA basketball tournament focusing on what seemed like a fait accompli: me winning the Powerball jackpot. I went through the typical cycle. The delusions of grandeur. Telling all the superiors at my job where they could go — surprisingly they didn’t get the memo that the T.J. Maxx customer service department was my metaphor for Hades. Also, I had to decide which island in the South Pacific I would soon purchase and on which I would subsequently build an oasis made out of coconut sh...
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April 09, 2012
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