This year, however, some oaf decided to cast a vote for Ohio State as the best team in the country, well after the Buckeyes lost in the Sweet Sixteen. Clearly this voter is one of those fellows who’s being seduced by the popular, inane BCS vs. March Madness arguments that keep popping up.

So Mr. Ohio State joins the tired, mouth-breathing crowd unsure about the “validity” of March Madness. He casts his lot for his team, still bitter about Kentucky’s buzzer-beating win. If he’s pressed, he’ll resort to the trite opinion that the “best team doesn’t always win the NCAA tournament” and “this is why college football does a better job awarding a champion.”

Ohio State, naturally, consistently rides preseason bias into undeserving college football championship appearances. Not only do they have chips on shoulders, they prefer the system that rubber-stamps their fraudulent teams.

Mr. Buckeye staunchly believes Ohio State was the best team in the country, and nothing he sees on the court — not even a loss — can dissuade him. And he petulantly cast his stupid vote to prove it.

Look, I’ll say this one final time: The best team is the one who wins 6 games in a row. Period. That team is the best. I don’t like UConn any more than you. (In fact, I like them less.) But they won six in a row. No one else did, or could, and so UConn is the champion.

Once again, the best team won the playoff. They are no. 1, and neither imagination, confirmation bias, nor phony argument can prove otherwise. Welcome to life. Jim Calhoun has more championships than Dean Smith. Life ain’t fair.

Playoffs, by contrast, are.

I keep telling you, there's no such thing as unnecessary White Sox hatred.

Bill Simmons’ Twitter feed reports he’s driving to Miami, so in his absence his editors conveniently cherry-picked several readers’ poor imitations of Bill responses to his “Most Tortured Teams” list from last Friday. Of course, Bill chose the Cubs No. 1, and of course, that’s totally justified. You can argue, I suppose, but it’s justified. It doesn’t matter if they’re more popular than your sorry team, we Cubs fans are tortured. Believe it or not.

However, the editors chose to run only with the dissident White Sox fan mantra; the “look at me” little-brother inferiority complex that theorizes, time and again, stuff like:

“Full disclosure: I’m a White Sox fan. I’ve lived around Cubs fans my whole life, and lemme tell ya something — Cubs fans are NOT tortured. First off, they aren’t even baseball fans. They care more about being at Wrigley and remembering where they parked their BMWs.”
- JB, Munster, Ind.

Oh, Cubs fans are all rich. Right. After all, that’s why I blog! Somebody tell me, but we’re probably yuppies, too, yes?

“Only one team had a “curse” everyone knew about and tons of yuppie fans signing up to hop on the failure bandwagon. … It’s romantic to go to the North Side and drink beer with rich white people and watch crappy baseball. There is so much “history and ambiance.” It’s a great way to feel like the common man, even though you paid $80 for a bleacher ticket.”

- Brent L., Chicago

Well, thanks, Brent L. It’s true. I never heard of baseball until I followed some dreamboat preppie to Wrigley. He looked just like Zack Morris. Next thing you know, Brent L., you’ll be telling me the 2005 title didn’t have an effect on Chicago.

“What do you think hurts more, suffering along with a cast of thousands in book and song, or getting spit on while you lose? The sick thing is that I’m still scarred, and we got our title.”

- Brent L, again.

Oh, poor you. Your team won a World Series and you can’t enjoy it. You’re right, it’s the Cubs’ fault.

“Plus they wear their failure like a badge of courage, as if choosing this lifestyle makes them noble.”

- Mike K., NY

You know what, Mike-F-N-K? We don’t. We don’t want any points for nobility. We don’t love losing. We want our team to win the World Series every year, the pennant every year, and every single game. Just like you.

Sure, it’s just as sillly of me to cherry-pick quotes from Sox fan emails, as it was of ESPN editors, who chose only these columns, all White Sox responses. All predictable and annoying.

But honestly, surely a Cardinals fan wrote in and lambasted Cubs nation? (Assuming they could read. HA.) Surely some other city feels worse than the Cubs, worse enough to bag on the North Siders. I mean, the Mariners have never won anything. Ever.

But nope, some editor selected only bitter White Sox fan emails, lumping all Cubs fans into a pot of yuppie. Well, those generalizations are hopelessly played. You wouldn’t expect me to say stuff like, “all Sox fans are meth-addicts who live in trailers outside the Cell. With no day job, it’s easy to obsess about a team that isn’t your own. And no, stealing aluminum pipes doesn’t count as a day job.”

And I would never say that.

In various account maintenance portals, I’m asked if I was gifted this particular product or purchase. For crying out loud, what’s wrong with the word  “give?” (MFG Resolution No. 2: More profanity. Excuse me, more fucking profanity.)

Even Merriam-Webster now deigns to dignify the false verb “gift” as a transitive verb. Thank you, Merriam-Webster, for gifting this legitimacy to a transitive verb that shouldn’t exist. Sometimes the English language is so stupid I wish i just ai parle au Francais tout le temps.

Regardless (Notice I didn’t say ‘Irregardless,’ the hallmark of true morons), I was gifted several items over the holidays. This includes a new coffee pot and Season 1 of The Wire. Both were fantastic gifts for someone to gift me. I was honored to have gifted them from. (Head explodes.) Perhaps my most perplexing gift, however, arrived today – Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy.

I opened it and there it was, someone gifting me the actual disc. It actually exists! And it’s transfixingly crappy! I can’t decide if this person’s decision to gift me was either genius or cruel, or both!

Months ago I sampled Democracy, not astonished to find it sucked. Instead of purchasing it, however, I bought both Use Your Illusions, finally updating my catalog from the cassette version of both albums. (Using an itunes gift card someone gifted me for my birthday, no less.)

And since you didn’t ask, I’ve also distilled both Illusions into one essential Illusion. Yes, I know both Will Leitch and Drew Magary on Deadspin did this months ago, but I don’t care. I’m fully interested in ticking off their douche-y little sports blogger fraternity. Anyway, I’ve now gifted this essential tracklist to you, track order preferred by me.

1. Right Next Door to Hell (I). Why don’t you write a letter to me?
2. 14 Years (II). I tried to see the sunshine, but you bring the rain.
3. Bad Obsession (I). I call my doctor. He’s just another who says I’m sick in the head.
4. Don’t Cry (alternate) (II). No one can live in sorrow, ask all your friends.
5. Don’t Damn Me (I). ‘Cause silence isn’t golden when I’m holding it inside.
6. You Ain’t the First (I). I can’t hear you crying, your jiving’s been hell.
7. Yesterdays (II). I ain’t got time, to reminisce on novelty.
8. Pretty Tied Up (II). I know this chick, she lives down on Melrose. She ain’t satisfied without some pain.
9. Garden of Eden (I). This fire is burning and it’s out of control, it’s not a problem you can stop, it’s rock and roll.
10. Estranged (II). Old at heart, but I’m only 28, and much too young to bend or break a heart.
11. Dead Horse  (I). Sick of this life, not that you care.
12. Coma (I). No one’s gonna mess with my head no more.

You’re welcome. Happy New Year.

For those of us who have jobs (that we hate), summer stopped being relevant years ago – now it’s just an excuse for everyone you’ve ever met to shoehorn their weddings into each and every open weekend, racing to secure their special day on the hottest fucking afternoon of all time.

Anyway, here’s why Labor Day sucks:

• Homespun Americana. On its counterpart Memorial Day, the carefree, graduating promise of an entire summer of boozing and chasing trim seems gleeful and endless. You want to go to the lake? That’s fine, skip the Centennial Potluck and Veterans Parade! You want to jet to a Cubs/Cards series? Fantastic, we’ll have other Fireworks parties! Oh, you scheduled a long weekend at the beach? Great, don’t worry about Aunt Gertrude’s family reunion. Brett’s 21st birthday binge is Saturday? No sweat, it’s just the annual Art Festival.
  What’s that? Labor Day? You want to – what? Chill with friends on Labor Day? You want to avoid the Tractor Pull, Labor Day Parade, Old-Guy Softball Extravaganza, 27-hour potluck, Meager Carnival and Watermelon Festival? Not so fast, motherfucker. Tomorrow’s September. Summer’s over. What the fuck else do you plan to do?
  (Aside: I will never understand contrived small-town events that generations upon generations universally hate, yet rotely attend to mingle with neighbors and ne’er-do-wells alike. The irony of small-town life is inescapable: Each person who claims to eschew big cities for small towns because of sheer volume of people, cars, traffic, distractions actually spends more time in the company of harried friends, relatives, kids. These quaint folk converse, mingle and flit nonstop, to and fro betwixt ridiculous town-square events. Only in large cities can you truly avoid civic duty, your asshole neighbors, and relax securely in anonymity. Yes, I’m aware I sound like a jaded asshole.)
• The Heat. Not only am I navigating between picnics and parades and potlucks; I’m sunburnt to bejeezus and drenched in sweat, baking because midday Labor Day is always hotter than a thousand furious suns. Perhaps the heat accompanying any and all Labor Days anywhere any summer is closely related to the early-season Kinnick Corollary: It will always be 1000 degrees at gametime in Iowa City. On Labor Day, the thereom may extend to the world. Perhaps it’s just snide irony. Whatever the reason, it’s hot, the mosquitoes weigh roughly a ton, and you’re stuck at a fucking potluck with only a box fan and rotten cantaloupe. Enjoy.
• Allergies. This is absolute ground-zero of ragweed season. As I type this, my eyes gush, nose runs, head swells (stop laughing) and I’m so doped up I could double as an extra on Pineapple Express. Another side effect: Lame jokes referencing Pineapple Express.
• College Football. Yes, the NCAA hypocrisy train sails faster from my perspective each season, but I’m sorry, how am I supposed to get excited for the first week of college football?
  The games are all blowouts, no one plays anyone good, everything is sloppy and hot, and loud, incapable announcers return to TV all a-twitter about tradition and hope and the gloriousness of no playoff. Plus, college football fans are the worst – once the schools start butting heads, it’s an excuse for meathead fans too wrapped up in an alma mater of their choosing to argue, belittle, berate and excoriate, and take everything they say or hear or read all too seriously; an excuse to slash tires, yell, screech, growl and punch. At some point in life, this sport’s fanhood, requiring ridiculous amounts of hyperbole, vitriol, inferiority complexes and futile excess saps too much energy.
• You. I know steam shoots out of your ears, but please don’t argue and attempt to convince me college football’s actually great, asshole. I’m already sighing. Save your venom to rip on jerkfaced Mizzou fans.
• Shadows at Wrigley. Somehow, the Cubs have lost three straight games, and looked badly, uninterested and lethargic while doing so. It’s September. I’m gazing out at the ledge, knowing I’ll even start to panic/rationalize no matter the month’s events. We all knew it would come down to the wire, now here comes the test. Good luck to our heroes.
• I can’t wear white. No, not even my spats. Guess that rules out this weekend’s trip to the Disco.
• Cable TV Marathons. Oh, fantastic. Seventeen straight hours of Dirty Jobs. Thirty-six hours of Army Wives. Whatever will I Tivo? And just when I thought my life wasn’t fully controlled by Scrubs, TV Land now secures the rights, making the show even more ubiquitous, across four networks and appearing at each hour of the day. You’re lucky this blog survives. (Bite your tongue.)
• Fantasy Football. Each year I refuse to play, care, or worry about it, simply because I detest the typical Fantasy player lifestyle, assuming their team and amateur GM moves are completely relevant to anyone who’s ever heard of the NFL. I also hate the media “Fantasy Experts.” Take LaDainian Tomlinson first? Start Tom Brady? Thanks a lot, genius. But each year, I gleefully sign on, playing Armchair GM like every other meathead in America. In my Bob Sanders jersey. See, I’m no better.
• I was wrong. You know what, screw it. Labor Day does suck, most of all, because summer’s gone. I look out the window and the yard never got weeded. My novel still hasn’t been sold. My upstairs bathroom is still a four-piece, not a five. This site still features ten, maybe twelve readers. All those classics I promised to read in January are still upstairs, unopened. (Although I navigated through two chapters of Slaughterhouse-Five.) Tomorrow at work, I’ll be expected to be productive.

And I guess that’s the crux of it all, after all. Tonight, summer’s over, and that’s my major complaint. I was wrong. But also right, because, as you see, Labor Day sucks.

Twenty-seven, everyone was nice.
Gotta see ‘em make ‘em pay the price.
See their bodies out on the ice.
Take my time.

Am I evil? Yes I am.

DiamondHead/Metallica, Am I Evil?

You’d probably be surprised to learn of Mister Faded Glory’s distaste for Halloween. Sure, we may dabble in black magic and drugstore Satanism, but it’s all reactionary, designed to inflame losers who aren’t immediately convinced of our irreverent cool. Failing that, it’s simply a testament to our devotion to heavy metal.

But Halloween is lame. First, costumes are annoying. They’re annoying on kids, they’re way annoying on adults, and it’s an indictment of our stupid country that Halloween costumes are a billion-dollar industry. A billion-dollar industry. Seriously, moms and dads are outraged at slinky girls’ costumes, but isn’t it more outrageous that each year, bands of idiots fork over life savings just to escape failed personas?

Even now, an entire department on my floor dressed up as witches and goblins, at work, all day today. How in the world a person has the energy, much less the motivation to spend all morning in makeup to look like a fool is beyond me. (Full disclosure: I almost joined the masses and wore my Bob Sanders jersey, going as the baddest motherfucker on the planet, but I decided against it.) Work is bad enough – it’s even worse when including special-occasion camaraderie, displayed by Bonnie in shipping passing out fucking candy corn balls.

Secondly, it invades my relentless TV viewing. For two weeks leading up, we’re forced to stomach reruns of The Simpsons’ interminably tired Treehouses of Horror instead of actual shows. Also, at night don’t plan on channel surfing, unless you like watching cheap-to-air horror flicks five hundred times in a row, like Halloween H20, or the remake of Night of the Living Dead, or stupid TV shows’ special Halloween episodes. (Although Quantum Leap’s 1990 episode was awesome, when Sam tangled with the Devil in a dream.)

Finally, it’s the kids. OK, fine, it’s fun to dress up and play scared, but it’s not so fun for me, now that I live in midtown America, confronted with thousands of whiny trick-or-treaters. (Note: to commemorate this holiday, I will be wearing my new (!) Angel Pagan Cubs shirt. A joke sadly lost on these packs of rugrats.) Anyway, my idea of a good time is not tossing Kit Kats at third-graders, who promptly spout off, wishing we had Twix and then asking for a second bar.

In case you’re wondering, our house is giving away Blow Pops, not just because they’re cheap, but because of the juvenile sex undertones I get while watching Ms. Faded Glory suck on leftovers, plus I giggle each time we discuss the candy, often misconstruing the name ‘Blow Pops.’ Oh, stop judging me. I’m married, this is about as close as I usually get. Hmm. Maybe Halloween isn’t so bad.

In case you were wondering, top five worst Halloween Candies:

1. Nerds. Kids love these pure sugar monstrosities. But try getting purple dye off your tongue. Gross.
2. Almond Joy. Seriously, there’s no freaking joy in almonds. None whatsoever. Hate to break it to you.
3. Those horrendous orange and black wrapped mush balls. You know what I’m talking about. Nice treat, cheap-o. I don’t wish to use extreme hyperbole, but people who dole these out should be shot.
4. Bit-O-Honey This stuff has been getting a bad rap lately, first on Scrubs, then on ESPN’s FirstTake. It’s deserved, this stuff is poison.
5. Smarties. Gee, thanks for lacing my candy with meth, strychnine, crack, or heroin, weird guy. Much appreciated.