Warning: If you use my picks to place bets, make fantasy picks, or enter other contests of prognostication, you are a fool and you deserve to lose. Unless you have a stroke of dumb-luck success and you’re giving me a cut of the winnings, don’t write me about your failure.
It’s that time of year, folks.
What a lame lead sentence. When isn’t it that time of year? If you’re an American sports fan, don’t you get tired of “that time of year?”
Barring the strategically accented tokens of estrogen, sometimes it all seems like an endless, besuited parade of middle-aged, balding, flaccid white men trying to tell us what time it is. CNBC lookalikes promoting, informing, and sometimes (if not purely by accident) entertaining the masses about an upcoming season. It’s all brought to you by corporations selling its brand of self-medication: booze, junk food, and pills marketed with hints of lurid fantasies to escape whatever part of reality you dread facing at any moment.
Welcome to [insert sport here] season, brought to you by Propecia, Viagra, and Celebrex. You’ll be able to hold your water, keep it up, and move your hips long enough without an ache so you can have just enough fun with that special someone before your skin develops a horrific rash, your kidneys fail, and your heart explodes.
