I have met Chevy Troutman in the place of my mind between starts and definitive asskicking asskissing finale, wherein bit partmen from midway through yesterday’s struggles and tomorrow’s overrated championships are dicksucked on pedestals by the Boys of Bristol except that Chevy’s offspring stopped somewhere on the Road to the Final Four and stopped on that grassy shoulder, noted the road itself upped and left just like it always always did for those poor fuckers, and poor fucker I for the moving of P, I, T, and T down the lines until they were the only ones left in my bracket o’failitude. Worse off, sad D.N. be sad D.N., for loverly wife K.B.C. Nation slapped me around in my disforgotten bracketologifail and left me for losing and so here, my dear, are some football tickets to settle that there bet so I can sit at the top of the Georgia Dome and think fundamentally these things two:
1) Beer is awful expensive here, and yet more and more because I should, right?
and
2) Dammit, I don’t know why the hash marks are this way here and that way there and gots to get me another beer before silly ignorance becomes to gripping and this all leads us to fundamentally this thing one:
1) I ain’t achieving to be debt free, least as the parents say I go out too much and buy too much and spend too many hours with hands grasped on stained wooden bar and eyes up at rectangular screen and down to third, fourth, fifth round and. There’s also the other thing of looking up at rectangular screen grasping to the table to launch into 5 p.m. on, but that isn’t more than accounting for the first grasping and looking and wouldn’t mama be proud? Well is she, D.N.? No she is not.
So that’s where Chevy Troutman is. In the dreams of my shitty actualities, floating among the failure of a fuck, I lost to my wife dammit dammit fuck shit I hate brackets very much so. So.
